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Art Young, his life and times 





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Without the assistance of John Nicholas Beffel the writ- 
ing of this book might possibly have been finished sometime 
around 1950. 

Although it was earnestly undertaken I found myself 
involved in debates with my own ego to such an extent I 
had to have the first dead-line moved ahead one year, then 
another year, and no doubt would have continued indefi- 
nitely asking for extensions of time. Then, too, I had periods 
of indifference as to whether it was worth doing at all. But 
Beffel was a stimulating adviser and an agreeable companion 
in helping me retrace my steps to look at it all again. Indeed 
it was he in the first place who proposed the book. Beffel 
kept me interested, took notes of my memory talks, assembled 
my long-hand pages in proper sequence, and conferred with 
me on many occasions to discuss contents and weigh values. 
I found it best to let him have his own way when I couldn't 
see the best way myself to present some of the phases of a 
long life overcrowded with memories. 

If there is any show of vainglory in the book, I'll blame 
it on Beffel. The modesty, if any, is mine. 

And if there are any mistakes as to names or dates, they, 
too, are mine, for Beffel will find the right date or the cor- 
rect spelling of a name if they can be found in any place on 
earth. He will not rest until a statement of fact is authenti- 
cated by checking up with other chroniclers of the same pe- 
riod of American history. 

In writing personal names of the old home town, how- 
ever, it was often a hit-or-miss recollection and not always 
strict identity that resulted. 

Special thanks are due also to Ruth Collat for her 
thoughtful reading of the proofs of this narrative; to Charles 


Scribner's Sons and Harper & Brothers for permission to 
quote respectively from Mr. Dooley Says and Mr. Dooley's 
Philosophy; and to the publishers of the Encyclopedia 
Britannica for leave to use some paragraphs from the authors 
article therein on the theory and technique of the cartoon. 


Chestnut Ridge Road, 
Bethel, Connecticut, 
October, 1939, 


1. Sunlight and Shadow in Paris 3 

2. A Chinese Army Gets in My Way 17 

3. Back to the Old Home Town 27 

4. Any Boy Could Become President Then .... 35 

5. A Small-Town Lad Chooses a Career .... 49 

6. I Capture the Nimble Nickel 62 

7. The Stage is Set for a Supreme Tragedy .... 74 

8. I See Chicago Justice at Close Range 82 

9. Melville E. Stone Sends for Me 88 

10. Four Dissenters Silenced by the Rope . . . . 101 

11. Patterson of the Tribune Fires Me 109 

12. I Go to New York with High Hopes 115 

13. We Learn About the English and Welsh . . . . 126 

14. On the Stage; Pictures Set to Music 136 

15. Return to Health and Chicago 144 

16. I Work With Thomas Nast 155 

17. Altgeld Pardons the Anarchists 165 

18. Mayor Harrison is Shot Down 169 

19. I Marry Elizabeth North 175 

20. Helping the Yellow Press Start a War . . . . 188 

21. Matrimony Hits a Reef 200 

22. I Become Aware of the Class Struggle . . . . 213 

23. Another Child and New Worries 225 

24. But the Back-to-Nature Experiment Fails . . . 243 

25. All Too Slowly I Sec the Light 254 

26. At Last I Know Where I'm Going 269 

27. In Washington for the Metropolitan . . . . 282 

28. The A. P. Robes Itself in White 295 

29. War^Makers Beat Their Drums 302 

30. The Censorship Picks on the Masses * . . . . 318 

31. We Go to Trial in Tense Days 328 



32. Stifling the Voices Against War .... 

33. Some Optimists Launch Another Magazine 

34. Successful Publishing Requires Hardness . 

35. My Younger Son Picks a College .... 

36. Battles on the Liberator Board ..... 

37. An Art Gallery and Two Books ..... 

38. I Move Along a Shadowy Road ... - 

39. Among the Silk Hats at Brisbane's Funeral , 424 

40. Overflow Meeting of Memories .... 4^1 
Epilogue: Watching the Old Order Crack . . . . 450 
Index , . 461 

Art Young Frontispiece 


Buffalo Bill in Paris, 1889 7 

Bougeaureau 9 

End of the Paris Exposition, 1889 13 

My Day Nurse 19 

My Boyhood Home 28 

Remembrance of My Father and Mother 32 

Scene in Father's Store Around 1886 39 

Old Fashioned Grandpa 44 

Youthful Entry in a Prize Contest 55 

Early Art School Drawings, Chicago, 1884 .... 63 

My First Published Cartoon 64 

William Frederick Poole 71 

Judge Joseph E. Gary . 84 

Fashion in 1886 90 

Booth and Barrett 91 

Finley Peter Dunne 96 

Before the Bicycle 97 

The Chatsworth Train Wreck 99 

The Haymarket Prisoners in Jail 103 

When I Was Misled 107 

Eugene Field's Letter 114 

Arrival in New York, 1888 117 

Joseph Keppler, Sr . . 122 

Bernard Gillam 122 

Clarence Webster and His Kodak 132 

When I Was on the Stage 141 

Preview of World's Columbian Exposition , . . . 157 

Elizabeth North 176 

Vanguard of Coxey's Army 182 

Keir Hardie 185 




A Comic Suggested by My Wife 189 

From an Early Art Young Book 194 

The Terrible Teddy 197 

Artists and Editors: 

Frederic Remington, Arthur Brisbane, Thomas Nast 

and Bob Davis 203 

Frederick B. Opper 204 

When 'Hiram Pennick' Was Merely Comic . , . - 211 

Just Alike 226 

Connecticut Crime Against Art 234 

Mark Twain 241 

A Success 246 

Shots at Truth 248 

All Is Vanity 250 

Graduation Night at Cooper Union, 1906 .... 254 

Ella Reeve Bloor 257 

Alexander Irvine 258 

American Mothers 259 

The In and Out of Our Penal System 261 

Charles Edward Russell .263 

Some Day. A prophetic cartoon 265 

Piet Vlag 270 

Just People 273 

Time to Butcher 278 

Holy Trinity ,280 

The Lawrence Way 282 

Taft; "Eyes Front!" , 284 

At the 1912 Socialist Convention 286 

Oscar Ameringer , . . . ,287 

When the Village Rich Man Dies 290 

Susan B. Anthony 292 

"He Stirreth Up the People" 294 

When I Was Under a Cloud 300 

Mother Jones 303 

Not Harmonious 304 

Where Will It Strike? 306 

Charles A. Lindbergh .309 



The White Man's Burden 312 

Terence V. Powderly 316 

Having Their Fling 325 

The Boss 326 

A Case of Heresy 329 

Morris Hillquit 333 

Bill Haywood 344 

The Sower 348 

Charles W. Ervin 353 

A Good Morning Poster 358 

Small Favors Thankfully Received 361 

James Eads How 365 

Fixing Up the World War Soldiers 367 

The Poor Fish 370 

The Harding Inaugural Parade 373 

A Private View for the Best People 376 

Bonus or No Bonus 377 

Looking On 379 

Convention Notes 380 

Fight La Follcttc 381 

Editor of the County Gazette 382 

Hope Springs Eternal 384 

Steffens Reports On His Visit to Russia 393 

My Art Gallery 401 

Mary Heaton Vorse 403 

Defeat 404 

Sketching Devils 417 

Ghosts 419 

One Bystander to Another 420 

Heywood Broun 422 

A Greek Fable Up to Date 426 

My Slouch Hat , 427 

Remember Whence You Came 430 

For Adoption 43 1 

Rounding Up the Unbridled Past 433 

The Joke Is On You, Baby 435 

O. Henry 436 



Robert G. Ingersoll ,436 

Carlo Trcsca ... 438 

Sacco and Vanzetti .... 439 

Alexander Woollcott 441 

For an Upton Sinclair Book . , 443 

Elizabeth Gurley Flynn 445 

Clarence Darrow 446 

Self-Portrait of Thomas Nast 448 

Over They Go 454 



Chapter 1 

PARIS was like some lovely young hostess with arms 
outstretched that September afternoon as Clarence 
Webster and I strolled along the boulevards, crossed 
the bridges over the Seine with its gay Exposition-bound 
boats, and revelled in the sound of the animate voices all 
around us, the musical cries, the bright faces, and the cracking 
of cabmen's whips a continual cracking above all other 
sounds. For months I had been hungering for all this, but 
my visions had never come near the reality. 

Clear skies and a fresh breeze, and Chicago and New 
York far behind. Exquisite women passed in magnificent 
carriages, and on the wide walks were men of leisure topped 
by silk hats; trim nursemaids with their convoys of children; 
artists and their girls, known as grtsettes, whom my dictionary 
describes as having "lively and free manners but not neces- 
sarily of immoral character/' Spreading green trees, statues 
of historic figures at every turn, fountains pouring forth 
sun-drenched water. And in the distance, dominating the 
whole scene, the black outline of the Eiffel Tower. The year 
was 1889, and I was twenty-three. 

As a small boy at home in Monroe, Wisconsin, I had 
seen only one person who had been to Paris. This was Mrs. 
Cook, an old lady who occasionally called at our house. She 
had traveled widely in European countries, an unusual thing 
for an American sixty years ago, before the day of popular 
cruises. Mother told me that Mrs, Cook had spent many 
months in Paris, and had played cards with Victor Hugo* 
I didn't know who Victor Hugo was, but he sounded im- 
portant, and Mrs. Cook seemed to me a remarkable woman 
just to look at because she had traveled and met famous 
people. Afterward, when I attended art schools in Chicago 
and New York, the talk was often about Paris the shining - 
goal of those students who wanted to finish off their educa- 



tion. My Instructors in Chicago and New York J. H, Van- 
derpoel Kenyon Cox, Carroll Beckwith, and othershad 
studied abroad. Both Paris and Munich in their time were 
close rivals for aspiring artists. 

"We won't think about work for a week/' Webster in- 
sisted. "We're going to examine this widely advertised town 
and see if it lives up to all we've heard about it." ^ 

I was not so sure about spending more time in loafing; 
for I was eager to enroll in the Academie Jalien, where I 
would study drawing and painting and continue my art 
training generally. But all things considered I decided it best 
to be an idle wanderer for a while longer, and get oriented 
We had already been to the picturesque town of Chester in 
England on the day after landing in Liverpool and had gone 
over into Wales to do some sketching and because Web was 
keen to learn if Welshmen really could pronounce the names 
of their towns. Then we explored London, particularly some 
of the places made familiar in Dickens's writings, for Web 
was an ardent Dickens fan. And overnight the boat had 
brought us from Dover to Calais, with me curled up on a big 
coil of rope on deck, sicker than any dog; ^after which we 
had proceeded on a wheezing and halting train to the French 

Everywhere we went Web jotted down his impressions 
and observations in a notebook. For he was doing a series 
of travel articles for the Chicago Sunday Inter-Ocean under 
the now de plume of Conflagration Jones, and I was illus- 
trating them with pen and ink drawings. Pale faced, and 
with a dark Vandyke beard, Webster had been mistaken in 
Hyde Park for John Burns, leader of the London dock- 
workers* strike. Carrying a camera under his arm, as Burns 
had carried a portfolio, he was followed for blocks by an 
admiring group of workers until he finally discovered why 
they were doing it, and explained with some difficulty 
that he was not John Burns, Webster's camera was the 
novelty of that season a kodak. 

My own appearance in Paris that first day is a strange 
memory picture to look back upon, I wore a flat- top black 
derby hat, cutaway coat with tails, trousers which flared 
around the feet in the current fashion, a cream-colored Wind- 
sor tie, and a winged collar, and I carried a cane, swinging 


it in the manner of one who thought he had the world by 
the tail. The flat- top hat I think it was called a "shell 
derby was in the prevailing mode, but the other items of 
attire I had adopted in New York because I didn't want to 
look like other young men, which was, I suspect, an act of 
protest against the herd instinct. But to my discomfiture in 
Paris I saw so many men queerly dressed that my own garb 
attracted no special attention; no one turned to look after me, 
saying; "I wonder who that is/' Nobody cared how you 
dressed. I was introduced to an artist who wore a plug hat, 
a short velvet coat, and wooden shoes, and who passed any- 
where without comment. 

A dyspeptic who at home was regarded by many ac- 
quaintances as a grouch, Webster had excellent qualities, and 
his surface cheerfulness on our travels was doubtless often a 
screen for internal misery. Certainly much of the cooking 
we encountered in England must have depressed him. He 
liked tarts and pies especially the British pork pie and 
suffered in consequence, then resorted to taking Carter's Little 
Liver Pills, which he always carried. 

He had been my best friend in Chicago during the four 
years that I worked as cartoonist and news sketch artist on 
the dailies there. After I went to New York to study, I kept 
in close touch with him by letter, and he knew that I was 
restless. When he arranged the joint assignment I approved 
of the plan instantly. Web was a versatile individual jour- 
nalist art critic, humorous writer, lecturer. From the begin- 
ning of this European trip we both made sketches, and I 
attempted some painting with a water color outfit which my 
companion carried. We had sailed from New York on the 
maiden voyage of the Cunard liner Teutonic. I had funds 
enough to carry me along for several months in France 
and I felt that it would be simple to earn more when needed, 
remembering that I had made money easily in Chicago; 
earned more at eighteen than I had supposed came to men 
twice that age. 

While Web commented jocularly on people and incidents 
that afternoon, I was lost in daydreaming. This was life, and 
life was good. Here was the Queen City of the world, with 
lovely parks and boulevards, glorious women, and all about 
one the marks of a culture centuries old. And what traditions 


ingercd! Here Dore, Daumier, Steinlen, and Millet had 
worked, here one could see the drawings of the masters of 
the Renaissance, here Napoleon had shaken the foundations 
of the world's empires, (Later I was to discover that Paris 
also had slums, but we didn't see these on that day,) . , . 
Breathing in that romantic air, I was whispering to myself 
a vow: "I'm going to be recognized as an artist and noth- 
ing can stop me/' Hovering in my mind, though not defi- 
nitely a part of the vow, was a thought of rich rewards to 
come; in that hour everything, for me, was wreathed in daz- 
zling golden light, 

I wanted to go at once to the Louvre, and Web assented. 
"We'll ask the first gendarme we see/' Having the greater 
initiative, he voiced the questions, and got profuse answers, 
with elaborate gestures* The answers were not clear to me, 
but they appeared adequate for my companion who had 
given much time to a French dictionary on the ship, though 
his pronunciation didn't sound at all like that of a native. 
Seizing me by the arm, he guided me triumphantly in the 
direction indicated, only to learn from an Englishman an 
hour later that the famous museum was in another part of 
the city in fact, not far from our hotel and by the time 
we arrived at its doors it was closed* 

Web amused himself by asking many gendarmes; " Where 
is la Tour Eiffel?" This always brought a look of quizzi- 
cal amazement to the face of the one addressed, since the 
tallest man-made structure then in the world, 984 feet high, 
towered above everything else, and was visible all over Paris. 
But we kept straight faces and Web would say "Out! OuiV f 
when the guardian of law and order pointed impressively 
to that giant steel spire. 

Earlier that summer Bill Nye, who had come to Paris to 
do some articles for the New York World, had been taken 
into custody for some inadvertent infraction of the law, and 
wrote that he "would willingly go a hundred miles to be 
arrested by a John Darm they are so courteous/' 

"How about going to the Exposition this morning?" 
Web inquired on our second day in France. 

"Let's just walk around the streets/' I urged* "The Ex- 
position will keep until tomorrow/' Next day it was post- 
poned again, there being so many other things to see, and 


we kept postponing it* I had read so much about it, and 
had looked at many illustrations of that spectacle, in Harper's 
Weekly and other periodicals, that my thought had been 
that I would rush to the Exposition grounds as soon as I 
reached Paris. But now there seemed no special reason to 

We had taken rooms in the Hotel de Nice, a small quiet 
establishment in the Rue des Beaux Arts, a short street in the 
Latin Quarter, traversed at one end by the Rue Bonaparte 


and the other by the Rue de Seine* In that street also there 
had lived Prosper Merimee, author of the Carmen libretto; 
Corot; and Fantin La Tour, who had painted flowers and 
done masterful lithographs of scenes from the operas of 

Web learned that Oscar Wilde was staying in the Hotel 
Alsace, almost opposite our quarters. He essayed to interview 
Wilde, and presented his card to the concierge, who told him 
that the playwright was too ill to see anyone. This was five 
years before Wilde's trial and disgrace, but he was well 
known as a public figure, who during his lecture tour in the 
United States in 1882 had reaped perhaps the largest array 


of unfavorable press comment, ridicule, derision, and cat- 
calling of any foreign-born individual who had ever visited 
this country. Web's day was spoiled for him by that disap- 
pointment, as another day had been clouded in London when 
he tried to get an audience with James McNeill Whistler, 
and found him "busy with a sitting/' 

Buffalo Bill's Wild West show was holding forth in a 
tent in an open field near the Exposition, and we were taken 
to see it by Theodore Stanton, Paris correspondent for the 
Inter-Ocean, son of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, the pioneer 
suffragist, and brother of Harriot Stanton Blatch, Colonel 
Cody was then in his prime, a dashing and dramatic figure* 
The Parisians called him Gaillaame Boofato, cheering him 
madly as he shot glass balls in air from a galloping steed. 
We were thrilled, and thought it a great show* Cody intro- 
duced American popcorn balls to the French, who didn't 
take to them. It was amusing to see the people outside the 
tent hesitatingly buy the pink and white balls and nibble on 

Day after day Web and I moved about the streets, hav- 
ing fun, We were looking chiefly for the comic aspects of 
life for the Inter-Ocean series, for it was the comic that was 
wanted back in Chicago. With that attitude, I realize now 
that we saw only surfaces. If there was a social problem any- 
where in Paris then, if people on mean streets were hungry, 
we never knew it. Even in the Whitechapel district of Lon- 
don, where we saw hordes of ragged and lean people, they 
had no social meaning for me. It was poverty, but what 
could be done about it? My eyes had not then been opened 
to the realities of the human struggle. 

We sampled some of the night life of Paris, and once 
we went to a theatre which had a reputation for being 
risque, but found nothing that was any bolder than the offer- 
ings of Chicago burlesque houses. True, we were importuned 
by guides with mysterious eye-winks to go with them to see 
things behind locked doors in out-of-the-way corners, but 
we were wary, suspecting they might be runners for robbers* 

After the week of loafing I signed up at both the Acad* 
emie Julian, where I studied by day, drawing chiefly from 
the nude, and at the Colarossi School, which I attended in 


the evenings, sketching models in costume. At the Julian I 
studied under Bougeaureau and Tony Robert Fleury. Boug- 
eaureau was then the high priest of French painters. I liked 
his work, for its thoroughness of draftsmanship and his 
ability to impose beauty over realism, though his art was 
being assailed as sentimental ' 'candy-box stuff" by both real- 
ists and impressionists. 

Though I lived in the Latin Quarter on friendly terms 
with the other students, I did not enter Parisian life with 
the Bohemian abandonment you read about in novels of the 

BOUGEAUREAU, From a pencil sketch made when I 
was studying in the Academic Julian. 

Quarter* I was in deadly earnest about developing my talent, 
and carousing had no lure for me. 

I applied myself assiduously to the work in hand, and 
as I proceeded I became more and more convinced that 
graphic art was my road to recognition* Painting interested 
me no less, but I thought of it as having no influence. If one 
painted a portrait, or a landscape, or whatever, for a rich 
man to own in his private gallery, what was the use? On 
the other hand, a cartoon could be reproduced by simple me- 
chanical processes and easily made accessible to hundreds of 
thousands. I wanted a large audience, . , . The prevailing 
art of that period embraced a thorough, almost photographic, 
lens-like observance of detail. Gerome, Messonier, Cabanel, 


Vibert, and Bougeaurcau were in the forefront of the art- 
world then, because they were good composers and accurate, 
precise draftsmen. In a sense they were the forerunners of 
colored photography, though of course their work was su~ 
perior to the candid camera as imaginative-selection always 
is when an individuality, not a machine, reveals a scene. 

I enjoyed working in the schools, but the days were not 
all pleasant. I was angrily resentful when a poor girl, anxious 
to qualify as a model for a week of posing, would be hooted 
as she disrobed for approval on Monday morning before a 
class of more than a hundred young men* Many times I saw 
some sad, inexperienced girl jeered down because her hips 
were too large or too small according to majority opinion, 
I had heard much about French courtesy, but in the Julian 
classroom it was often found wanting, when cries of "La 
Basl" and worse were hurled at the innocent who hoped 
that her figure was good enough to earn the paltry sums paid 
for this tedious labor of posing. 

One day I had sketched a big-muscled male, and Bougeau- 
reau came around inspecting our work. When he saw my 
drawing, he commented, with vigorous shoulder-shrugging* 
I didn't understand French, and it was my custom to ask a 
fellow-student named Robert Henri what the instructor had 
said. "He says your drawing is too brutal The model looks 
brutal enough without making him more so/' 

But I knew that Hogarth, Daumier, and Dore also had 
been brutal in portraying brutality, and that caricature 
meant the ability to exaggerate, Indeed, that all good art had 
this quality in some degree* 

Web's wife was soon to have a child and one day, after 
receiving a letter, he left for home with a wave of the hand, 
and when he was gone I felt rather lost. I had depended 
upon him in my daily life much more than I had realized, 
I now found myself overwhelmed by Paris. The few words 
of French I had learned failed me at every turn, and north 
always proved to be south, except when the sun was setting 
beyond the Eiffel Tower one direction I had learned was 
west. Looking back I can see how ill-prepared I was for the 
Gay City, and how much more I might have got out of it 
had I obtained a proper background of understanding by 
intensive reading* I had read some of Hugo's and Balzac's 


works, and a few other books by artists who had lived in 
France, but of the things of deeper significance in the past 
of that nation I knew little. I had never heard of Francois 
Villon then, nor did I know that Dante had once been a 
student at the University of Paris, 

In those first days of being alone I dared not venture far 
from the bronze statue of Voltaire, in front of the Institute 
of France, which was around the corner from my hotel. 
There he sat on his pedestal and smiled across the blue-black 
Seine. Often I gazed up at that strong lean face, and pon- 
dered the wisdom and courage reflected there, recalling a line 
from Hugo: "Jesus wept, but Voltaire smiled." 

But as the days rolled by I shed some of my timidity and 
made excursions farther from my base. Just to look at all 
those ancient surroundings enchanted me the crooked and 
winding streets of the Quarter, through which the wind 
howled on stormy nights; the more ponderous statues, many 
bearing names I did not know; the Punch and Judy shows in 
the Champs Elysees; the book-stalls flanking the Seine; the 
tall, narrow dwellings centuries old. Down some of those 
little streets clear rivulets ran all the time, so clean that 
women washed clothes in the gutters; I never learned where 
all that water came from* 

And of course the art galleries. On Saturdays and Sun- 
days I would haunt the Louvre, which was just across the 
Seine from the hotel. There I would contemplate the paint- 
ings and drawing of Raphael, Millet, Delacroix, Gericault, 
and others weighing with what I hoped was an intelligent 
eye the good and bad features in each. 

One day I paid the long delayed visit to the Exposition. 
It was big, but I was less thrilled than I had hoped to be. 
The decorative scheme was rococo and too much jeweled 
like a gaudy wedding cake. I hunted out the United States 
exhibit, and there met with disappointment; it was too small 
to do justice to our country, I thought, and not at all up to 
the showing made by England and Germany. The most im- 
portant exhibit there, to my mind, was the Edison phono- 
graph, to which several persons could listen at once through 
ear-tubes. It was uncanny, to hear the human voice coming 
out of a machine, both in song and speech, and band music. 


This machine used the cylindrical record which preceded the 
later disk form* 

Naturally I was interested in watching the crowds, and 
especially in hearing the comments made by American vis- 
itors. And as I moved about I found a good many things 
that were worth stopping to look at outlandish weapons, 
queer foodstuffs, exotic color schemes in the buildings and 
booths occupied by the darker peoples. 

Several times that day I paused at the foot of the Eiffel 
Tower, gazing up at its incredible height, But I did not enter 
for a ride in its elevator. I knew that many of ^the famous 
artists of France had protested against its erection, on the 
ground that it would violate the canons of art, Bougeaureau, 
Dumas, Sardou, de Maupassant, Gounod, and other well 
known men had spoken out in an open letter "in the^name 
of our national good taste, against such an erection in^the 
very heart of our city, as the monstrous and useless Eiffel 
Tower/' Yet everywhere in Pari? one met with reproduc- 
tions of the tower in every conceivable material chocolate, 
celluloid, pewter, wood, pasteboard, papier mache, glass, 
china, even in gold, The commercially minded section of the 
French people had overlooked no chance to cash in on the 
Eiffel idea. 

My hotel was notable for good food, bad coffee, and a 
motley assortment of guests. Like many Paris hotels then it 
had what Webster disparagingly called "he-chambermaids" 
men who made the beds and polished the floors with 
brushes attached to their shoes. Two women conducted the 
establishment Madame Medard and Madame Franklin, the 
first a handsome Frenchwoman and the second an English- 
woman, heavy and business-like but kindly disposed, espe- 
cially toward art students* 

Thomas Corner of Baltimore, a Quaker boy who later 
became well known as a portrait painter, was a fellow- 
boarder. He and I had a good deal in common. One person 
whom I sketched often was a woman of grand manner from 
New York whose daughter was studying art and who liked 
to tell everybody about it. She sat opposite me at the dinner 
table, and never gave the good looking blonde daughter a 
chance to talk, but insisted on regaling us with reminiscences 

NovrMr,* 14, 1889,] 




Pall Mall Budget 

END OF THE PARIS EXPOSITION, 1889. I was the last spectator 

to leave. , . 



of her travels. At the dinner table she would always assure 
us that "cheese digests everything but itself/' 

In the several weeks since Webster left, I had made no 
drawings for publication, feeling that it was well to concen- 
trate on study. But now I had a bright idea: I would attend 
the Exposition on the closing night, and be the last person 
shooed off the grounds. I did that, and it was a curious ex- 
perience, watching the spirit of antic play shown by visitors 
from many lands. There was something both joyous and sad 
about that farewell to a world event. I looked back into the 
grounds as two gendarmes politely but firmly closed the main 
gates the walks were cluttered with newspapers, candy 
boxes, and other litter. Ahead of me were students, arms over 
shoulders, dancing in single file across the nearest bridge over 
the Seine. Behind them some peasants singing. And an old 
gentleman in high hat and shawl, moving along with spry 

I had made numerous pencil sketches during the evening, 
and next day I re- drew them in ink, grouped them on a large 
sheet of paper, and sent them post haste to the Pall Mail 
Budget in London, which was edited by W. T. Stead. To 
my surprise that publication devoted a full page to a repro- 
duction of my pictures, and sent a prompt check, 

That called for a celebration. I took Corner to dinner on 
a Saturday evening in a cafe where there was good wine, 
Talking across the table, I dwelt upon things I was going 
to do romantic and bizarre features for the papers in Lon- 
don, Chicago, and New York. The market was waiting; all 
I had to do was turn out the stuff. 

Next day I was up early, whistling merrily, and after 
breakfast hastened forth to walk along the Quai in the sun- 
shine and gaze over the stone parapet at the busy boating 
on the Seine. My emotions were riding high; I needed room 
for my wings. Ahead of me through the years lay glamorous 
adventure. I would study diligently as long as need be, but 
presently I would begin going to other places over week- 
ends and holidays and sketching my observations for publi- 
cation, doing enough writing to counterbalance the pictures 
in print. Perhaps I would take trips to Brussels, Vienna, the 
seacoast, and maybe Florence. Already my name meant some- 
thing to Chicago editors and now here was London show- 


ing receptivity. I could have everything I wanted in life. 
, . * I wrote to my mother and father in Wisconsin, sending 
them a marked copy of the Budget, and telling of my plans. 

For weeks I worked with great enthusiasm, Christmas 
approached, and I sent home souvenirs of Paris, and wrote 
Mother telling of the festive observance of the holidays there. 
At Madame Medard's suggestion I attended Christmas morn- 
ing mass in the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and was stirred by 
the music. January and February passed, with my thoughts 
of future success still soaring. I was living in a dream-world. 

Never had I felt more fit, physically and mentally, than 
I did as I came downstairs one morning in March. My de- 
scent was a dance. For I had awakened with a brilliant vis- 
ualization of certain pictures that I knew I could do a series 
of pen-and-ink drawings which would express the spirit of 
Paris from the viewpoint of a dozen different types of hu- 
mans of whom I had made note in the streets. I had lain in 
bed for a few minutes, clear-eyed and vibrant with the joy 
of prospective creation. 

But at breakfast the talk of the others was anything but 
cheerful. There was a new outbreak of la grippe, a virulent 
form of influenza. Some of my fellow-lodgers were down 
with it, and I remembered that several students both at the 
J alien and at Colarossi's had been absent on that account. 
In the previous year there had been an epidemic of la grippe 
in Paris, and I heard that certain scientists had seen in it a 
counterpart of a plague lately raging in China, though health 
officials denied this. Directors of the Exposition had indig- 
nantly repudiated the theory that Asiatic visitors to the Fair 
had brought the germ of the disease into France. 

Talk of sickness always annoyed me; I had never been 
ill. I was in fine trim, weighing around 140, with no excess 
fat then, and with muscles in good condition. I would be 
immune to la grippe, partly because I wasn't afraid of it. Days 
passed, with more and more students falling ill, and I re- 
mained untouched. 

One afternoon at school, however, I became aware of a 
crowded feeling in my chest, then pain, which steadily grew 
worse. I kept on working for an hour, until the suffering be- 
came so intense that I asked to be excused. Madame Frank- 
lin's face paled as I staggered into the hotel. "You are ill!" 


she cried. "You should be in bed . . * Jean, go at once and 
call young Dr. Delbet." The Delbets, father and son, lived 
near by. 

Madame Franklin and the servants helped me upstairs to 
my third floor room, Woozily I managed to undress and get 
into bed. When the doctor came he examined me and looked 
grave, "Did you strain yourself, by lifting or falling?" No, 
I had not, I could not recall any strain, . . , "Pleurisy/' 
the doctor said, and so badly was the pleural cavity swollen 
that my heart was beating on the right side. Young Dr, 
Delbet tried to reduce the inflammation with plasters. No 
use! But I got through till next morning. Then Delbet called 
in his father, a noted physician of that time, and also Dr. 
Peters of Hopitdl de la Charite. More tests, head-shakings, 
consultation outside my room. Then the elder Dr. Delbet 
came in alone. My condition was "serious", he explained. 
Did I have any relatives in Paris? No? Too bad. An imme- 
diate operation was imperative. He and the others would 
"do everything possible" for me. He tried to be casual about 
it, but his efforts could not hide the gravity of my condition. 
I could read it in all of the faces around me, I felt like one 
doomed to the scaffold. 

Nurses came. Madame Franklin tried to cheer me as 
preparations for the operation were made. Thomas Corner 
had cabled my father. Madame Medard assured me she would 
pray to the Blessed Virgin for my recovery. Corner said: 
"Don't worry, Art, you'll get through all right." 

I was not so sure. I thought I ought to send some kind 
of a message to the folks at home, but I didn't know what 
to say. I dared not tell them what was in my mind, I was on 
fire with the fever, but my legs were like ice. All the golden 
dreams of the future had faded; no dazzling light before 
my closed eyes only blackness, I tried to lift my arms to 
reach out and grasp something tangible. But I was powerless. 
. * Outside somewhere a bell was tolling, I could hear my 
own footsteps, going to somebody's funeral maybe my 

Chapter 2 

THEY moved me on a stretcher into a large front room, 
I could hear Madame Medard praying in the halL Such 
a shuffling and concern over an art student from the 
prairies of Wisconsin it was comical. But I knew I was 
terribly ill. Low but insistent voices kept calling out: "Af- 
tendezl Attendez!" * . . The pain lessened, then came again 
in repeated stabs. Tom Corner was bending over me, and 
I was trying to tell him what to write to my folks. But I 
gave it up. * 'Never mind . . /' It would take more than 
two weeks for a letter to reach home. The Quaker artist's 
face was hazy to my eyes. ... I heard him say: "Your 
father is coming/' He would be too late, I was sure. 

Then the three doctors came in, and a nurse. All of 
them advanced toward my bed; I felt them closing in on me. 
I tried to cry out, but no words would come from my throat. 
Now some one was holding a sponge close to my nostrils. 
Chloroform, sickishly sweet. My body became light; I was 
floating in air, high above the roof-tops and the church- 
spires. I heard a crash like thunder, and I sank into darkness, 
down, down, down. 

Long afterward I was fighting my way upward through 
the blackness, choking until I found light once more. But 
instantly the light blinded me. I could hear voices, all jum- 
bled. They were talking about me, I was certain, but I could 
make out nothing that they said. . . . After a long time 
Dr. Peters* s voice grew distinct. "How do you feel, young 
man?" I struggled to answer, uttering something I've for- 
gotten probably: "Awful/' 

There was a new pain in my body, a roving pain. Each 
time I wondered about it, the pain leaped to another region. 
Ice packs on my head. Nausea. 

Somebody at some time explained to me that there were 
three rubber tubes in my side, instead of the usual single 



tube for draining the pleural cavity, and that I must be care- 
ful not to turn my body and not dislodge them. So I had 
to lie for hours in unchanging position, until I would plead 
for relief, and the nurses would shift me, 

Time passed leadenly, in my conscious periods. Then 
the fever would rise again, and days and nights would chase 
each other, like silhouetted figures on a shadow-lantern. All 
the persons who entered the room, if I could see them at 
all, were like shadows, All food tasted alike. Damp cold was 
coming in from outside, and the skies were gray. The room 
was heated by a charcoal grate, which gave uneven results, t 
and required much tending. I learned one French phrase from 
the doctor, "Fermer la potte, s*it vous plait.'' 

My hearing became supersensitive, whispers on the far 
side of the room being audible to me. Sounds outside came 
in from great distances bells, whistles of boats on the Seine, 
In the street below a goat-milk peddler, cab drivers inces- 
santly cracking their whips, a hand-organ grinder playing 
doleful tunes from grand operas, and, this being a time of a 
governmental crisis with a dictatorship headed by General 
Boulanger threatened hourly cavalry troops clattering by. 

Often thirst was upon me, my throat always parched. 
Thoughts carried me back to the cool clear water in a trough 
on my Uncle Aly's farm, where the horses drank. I thought, 
too, of my mother, father, and sister, and the pony of my 
boyhood. I wondered dimly about God, if there was one, 
as I heard Madame Medard pray; I didn't mind her doing 
that, because she meant it kindly, but I had no inclination 
to pray myself, although I remembered Hugo's phrase, some- 
thing like this: "There are times when the soul prays though 
the body does not kneel/* 

I had two nurses, both English. The one who served 
by day, whose name escapes me, was a large woman curi- 
ously resembling Mrs, Sairey Gamp in Martin Chuzzlewit* 
She was a devout Catholic, and one day I saw her jabbing 
holes with a hat-piti through a newspaper picture of Martin 
Luther. But she was conscientious in carrying out the doc- 
tors' orders, sometimes a bit too conscientious, I thought. 
Talkative when I was able to listen, she told of seeing Victor 
Hugo lying in state during the great public funeral cere- 
monies in 1885, She hadn't a good word to say of him 


lying dead, she declared, "looked like a mean old bear/* Her 
pet hatred, however, was Gambetta, the liberal Premier, who 
was accidentally shot and killed in 1882; she was glad of 
that. Naturally I didn't form any special liking for my day 
nurse; she was mostly venom* 

MY DAY NURSE. From a pencil sketch made in bed. 
She jabbed a picture of Martin Luther with a hatpin. 

But Mrs, Stone, who watched over me at night, was a joy 
serene. She was kind, and lovely for a sick artist just to look 
at. She had an industrious husband, whose photograph she 
showed me proudly, and six small children. One line I re- 
member from her quiet talk was: "You ought to see me 
'usband and the rest of us a-walking out of a Sunday/' 

Days of rain and fog came, and gloom pressed into the 
room. The elder Dr. Delbet appeared daily, gave me hypo- 
dermic injections, and conversed in anxious, whispers with 
the nurse and Madame Franklin. I was only half-conscious, 
and presently was clutching at dark shapes in ugly dreams. 
Some time later Madame Franklin was at my bedside saying, 
"Your father is half way across the ocean/' 

That night I grew worse. Could I last till my father 
arrived? If I should have a relapse I was sure I would not 
live; I had not enough strength left. It was hard to hold 
on to reality* The room seemed too warm and I needed 
oxygen. I tried to breathe deeply, but found that it brought 


pain to the lung area, and seemed likely to disturb the tubes. 
So I breathed with exceeding care, taking in all the air 1 
could without doing damage inside. That was something to 
think about, something constructive; oxygen was life-giving; 
the more I got of it the better. I wanted a window open. 
Mrs, Stone demurred at that; but after an argument she 
opened one window a little and I felt better. 

Corner came in whenever permitted, trying to interest 
me with reminders that Father was steadily coming nearer* 
"I'll go to the Gate da Nord and meet him* What kind of a 
looking man is he?" I was able to answer that question, in a 
half-lucid interval "He resembles General Grant and wears 
a blue broadcloth suit/' After that a long blank, . 

When my father arrived, I recognized him, although I 
was in a mental haze and my talk was incoherent. I felt no 
surprise at his being there; I had a notion that he had been 
close by all the time, and it seemed as if he had just dropped 
in from around the corner instead of crossing the Atlantic. 
But there was a vague comfort in knowing that he was near, 
He would come and go, sitting by my bed for hours, some- 
times far into the night. He would bring in fruit, which I 
could not then eat freely, but it was cheerful to see it, and 
Sairey Gamp was fond of fruit. 

There was trouble with the drainage from my wound, 
the fever mounted again, and my mind rambled* Late one 
night, after Father had gone to sleep in his room down the 
hall, I reached the high point of delirium. 

For hours, it seemed, I had been conscious of marching 
steps, and the shadows of passing people, I heard voices in 
a strange tongue, commands, the clash of cymbals, and the 
clatter of horses' hoofs, I asked the nurse what the excite- 
ment was all about She said it was nothing. Then, far off, 
I could hear drums, coming closer and closer. More com- 
mands, below my window. 

Suddenly I knew what all these maneuvers meant: There 
was going to be a war a Chinese army, led by a giant 
general on a white horse, was coming across the Seine, around 
the Institute of France, and past our hotel. The general 
wore a huge and fierce looking mustache, and held a ponder- 
ous broad sword across his loins. Sweeping all obstacles aside, 
he and his soldiers were pushing on to seize the Eiffel Tower 


and set up a new empire with Li Hung Chang at its head. 

Where were all the French patriots who should be here 
dying for France? Why hadn't the bridge over the Seine been 
guarded? Why hadn't the garrisons on the frontier kept back 
these barbarian hordes? Somebody must do something about 
this. By God, I would do it myself, I would go out there on 
the window balcony and stop these Chinese soldiers from 
advancing another foot. ... I tried to jump out of bed 
and hurry to the window. Mrs. Stone sought to stop me, 
and her face seemed to change. Ah! I saw her now as a 
Chinese spy. 

I struck at her, and struggled with her, determined to 
get out on the balcony and stop the invasion. But the nurse 
had strong arms, and managed to get me back to bed, and 
after a while quieted me. In the morning I was clearer- 
headed. The elder Dr. Delbet was there again, very solemn, 
as he talked with Father and Mrs, Stone. 

After this delirium I began to show marked improve- 
ment. My mind cleared and I was able to carry on intelligent 

"How is Mother?'* was my first question. 

"She's well, and anxious for you to come home/' 

I had inquiries to make about my sister Nettie, my 
brothers Charles and Will, and other people and institutions 
in our town. And as I sat propped up against pillows and 
ate milk toast the first food that tasted right Father began 
remembering things that had been happening at home since 
I visited there the previous summer. 

"Charlie recited some poetry at the fire department's en- 
tertainment/' he said. . . . "We went to see Uncle Dave 
the Sunday before I left. He's had his whiskers cut short, 
and you wouldn't know him. . . . Old Man Meyers con- 
fided to me lately that he's on the point of discovering per- 
petual motion/' 

All this talk of home lifted my spirits, My eyes must have 
lighted up, for Father was encouraged to go on, with a 
chuckle now and then. 

"There's a new iron gate at the poorhouse. * , , Ab 
Keeler says he's going to sign the pledge next time a tem- 
perance lecturer comes to town. , . . Hank Hussig found an 


Indian hatchet with a head ten inches long in his cornfield, 
, , . The county officials are going after the fast drivers. 
Judge Dobell fined two men from Clarno five dollars each for 
driving faster than a walk across the Pecontonica River 

More news of similar kind came as the days went by, in 
letters from my mother and sister. And they sent copies of 
the Weekly Sentinel. Father now read from it such items as 

"Carl Marty of New Glarus sent a carload of cheese to 
Milwaukee. . . . The young folks report Julia Moore's 
party a success. . . , Monroe Band concert at Turner Hal! 
next Thursday night. Hear Strawn Shrake play 'The Palms/ 
, . , Fred Geiger was a pleasant calkr Tuesday from 
Blanchardville, . . , Henry Puffer is on the sick list. . . . 
George Wagner of Orangeville and Billy Blunt, our popular 
townsmen, are going to start a gents' furnishing store on 
the south side of the Square. Good luck, George and Bill 
Don't forget to advertise in the SentineL We need some haber- 
dashing. . . . Mr. and Mrs, Bat Niles of Spring Grove are 
the proud parents of a son, born last Friday, . . . Steve 
Klassy drove up to New Glarus Tuesday to look at a cow." 

Thus the history of Monroe and the surrounding coun- 
tryside, important to those named and important then to me 
as I took hold of life again. 

During the long slow weeks of convalescence I saw my 
father in a new light, developing an appreciation for his 
capacities which I had never had before. Here was Dan 
Young, a small-town general storekeeper, who knew little 
of the world, suddenly uprooted by a crisis, and sent hurtling 
across 4,000 miles of land and water to a country where the 
language and customs were alien to him yet doing every* 
thing that needed to be done, quietly, effectively. In those 
first days when I was babbling in delirium he scarcely left 
my side, even though there was always a nurse on duty, 
And when my senses were restored he was constantly 

Presently it occurred to me that he must be tired staying 
indoors so much, and I persuaded him to go out exploring 
on his own. Having a natural instinct for direction, he walked 


a lot and saw numerous landmarks that I had never got 
around to see including the Tomb of Napoleon, His French 
was as bad as mine, though he too had been trying to fathom 
a co-language dictionary. Going to a barber-shop, he asked 
for a haircut in carefully rehearsed syllables, but was not 
understood. So he had to fall back upon the sign language, 
imitating scissor-blades with two fingers, gesturing with them 
around his head. 

I never asked him how much my operation cost; I hadn't 
the courage.* And there were the nurses' services, and the 
hotel expense. My morale was in no condition then to con- 
cern myself with financial problems. Father had assumed 
all the responsibility, and I let things take their course. Each 
day he wrote my mother and sister. It was understood with- 
out discussion that I was to go home as soon as I was able 
to travel. I offered no objections to this; it was easier to let 
some one else make all my decisions. 

Toward the end of April, I was definitely on the up- 
grade, and it was possible to dismiss both nurses. The tubes 
had been removed, and the wound was healing. Madame 
Medard and Madame Franklin looked in occasionally to talk 
with Father, and Corner came in each evening. But I was 
alone a good deal of the time, and I welcomed that. I wanted 
to think, to re-plan my shattered future. My ego had been 
dealt a devastating blow. Ego was not a layman's word in 
that day; we called it self-esteem. I remembered a sermon 
I had once heard in the Presbyterian church at home, about 
the deadly sin of pride. And I had been the cock of the walk 
in Chicago and now had been laid low. 

Lying there weighing all that had happened to me, I knew 
that it was too early for any planning. I was not even sure 
that I would be able to do any drawing when I got back on 
my feet. I searched my brain for ideas for pictures, but none 
would come. Hitherto ideas had flowed easily. 

So I began making mental journeys back to the scenes 
of childhood. What a marvelous instrument the brain, when 
it performs normally a magic carpet, annihilating time and 
space. , , . Gazing across the distance at my self of earlier 

* As these pages were written, a letter from my sister gave me the answer to 
that question, almost fifty years after the fact. She wrote: "The doctors would 
not operate on you until Father had cabled $700." 


years, I thought that if I could live life over again I would 
do it better, would be more considerate of my parents, more 
helpful in the store and on the farm, 

"Why do the French say 'Out/ Ouil' when just one 'OuiT 
would do?" Father wanted to know* 

"That is one of the mysteries of this strange land/' I 
told him. "Clarence Webster devoted a great deal of time 
and energy trying to learn the answer to that question, and 
he was never able to get any light on it. He has a theory 
that the old rhyme about one of the ten little pigs saying 
Vee, wee, all the way home' was written by a Frenchman/' 

Father displayed more humor in Paris than I had ever 
suspected him of having. In my boyhood he had usually 
appeared rather glum, while the rest of us laughed a good 
deal I couldn't understand that. Yet perhaps,,! reflected, as I 
stared at the ceiling of my room, raising a family of four 
children was a pretty serious business, ... He had a free 
and easy way now, as of one on a holiday, which amused 
me especially when he would say to the elder Dr. Delbet 
(dignified member of the Legion of Honor) : "Well, Doc, 
how do you think the boy is today?" 

Late April brought warmer weather and sunshine again, 
and my strength increased. Soon I was able to get out of bed, 
sitting up for fifteen minutes one day, and next day trying 
my legs in the hall, A week later I was permitted to go out 
of doors; and leaning on Father's arm, I moved slowly and 
carefully around the corner of the Institute to the Voltaire 
statue. After lying in bed so long, I felt as if I were on stilts 
ten feet tall, and in danger of falling at every step* We stood 
for a little while and looked over the parapet into the Seine 
with its brisk traffic; then sat on a bench and watched some 
children at play. 

When I felt equal to a longer walk, we visited the Louvre 
together, and Father seemed a bit abashed when we came 
to a room full of paintings of nudes, mostly of beautiful 
women. Yet I noticed he wasn't in any hurry to get away. 

"I suppose it's all right/' he said, as we finally left, "to 
have pictures like that in a big city, but if they were exhibited 
in Monroe it would be kind of embarrassing if the minister 


and his wife happened to come in while a fellow was looking 
at them/' 

On a fine day in May we boarded a boat and went up 
the river to the Exposition grounds. When Father wanted 
to go up in the Eiffel Tower, I said nothing about my previ- 
ous indifference to it. By this time I felt that perhaps a duty 
was involved. When I got back home it might be hard to 
explain why I hadn't gone up when every other visitor to 
Paris presumably had. 

It cost five francs to make the ascent. The elevators ac- 
commodated fifty passengers at a time, and were so solidly 
constructed that there was a fine sense of security as one was 
propelled upward. The day being clear, France was spread 
out below us like a relief map. Lecturers on the lofty observa- 
tory floor, 750 feet above ground, pointed out towns, rivers, 
battlefields, and other landmarks as we gazed through field- 
glasses. I had to admit to myself that Alexandra Gustave 
Eiffel had great engineering skill; and better than skill 

I was still shaky as the ship bore us homeward, although 
the sea air helped. And I was humbled. There was still much 
doubt in my mind about the future. It would depend on 
how far I succeeded in building back to normal strength. 
I had no immediate wish to do any drawing. Yet I had no 
thought of any other career. I was gripped by the same 
inertia which had held me during those last weeks in Paris. 
Nothing seemed worth doing which required any effort. 

But my father's spirits were high. He was taking me home 
upright and not horizontally, and I was going back to fresh 
country air and sunshine and good food. That anxious jour- 
ney to France and the return with his son alive was of course 
the high point in Father's life. He had never before been 
away from his Wisconsin home farther than Iowa. . . , 
And now he was enjoying himself. He was interested in 
everything on the ship the machinery, the pilot house, the 
changing of watches by the seamen, the crisp commands, 
the clock- work routine, and the luxurious meals. We did a 
turn around the deck morning and afternoon, and it was 
exhilarating for him to feel the surge of the seas when the 
bow of the liner climbed a wave as we rounded the fore- 


cabin. I tried to pretend that I felt exhilaration too, but 
my pretense had a poor foundation. 

Much of the time I sat in a deck chair and had little 
to say, even when Father was close by. I was still trying to 
recover my old whistling confidence. 

Chapter 3 

I FELT a good deal stronger when we landed in New 
York, but I was miserably sunburned. We put up at the 

Murray Hill Hotel, and I took Father to see the outside 
of the Art Students' League building, where I had studied, 
viewing it from across the street; it was then at Twenty-third 
and Lexington avenue, I had no wish to meet anyone I knew, 
because I didn't want to do any explaining about Paris. That 
was mostly a nightmare to be forgotten the wreck of a 
golden dream. 

We walked over to Madison Square, where I grew wob- 
bly again, and we sat for awhile on a bench. Though he did 
not say it in words, Father was plainly concerned about those 
spells of weakness which kept recurring, and he was not so 
much interested in seeing New York as in getting on to 
Wisconsin. I felt the same way. 

There was something friendly about the front of the 
Grand Central station next morning. We of course referred 
to it as "the depot", as railroad stations were called fifty 
years ago. Father stocked up with fruit. I went to bed early 
in the Pullman berth that evening, and succeeded in sleeping 
a good deal. The elder Dr. Delbet had said: "Rest as much 
as you can." 

Clarence Webster was waiting for us when we pulled 
into Chicago, and took us to lunch at the Grand Pacific Hotel. 
Web had much to tell about the boys I had worked with, and 
plied me with questions about Paris. "You're looking great, 
Art, for an alleged invalid," he said heartily. "You'll soon 
be back at the drawing board." 

I must have smiled wanly, for I wasn't so sure. I had 
not touched a pen since my last day at the Julian. My hands 
were clumsy. And I was still many pounds underweight, 
although my hair, which had been largely burned out by the 
fever, had grown in again and was curling naturally. Some- 



times in the nights on the ship there had been a dull, pressing 
pain beneath the four-inch scar where the incision had been 
made in my left side. Often I said to myself: "Oh, Gosh, 
suppose I had to go through all that again V* 

We were met at the train in Monroe by the rest of our 
family and a little group of friends. What I recall particu- 
larly is that I gave way to tears when I caught sight of my 
mother* Weeping is frowned upon among males generally, 
but I seem to be about fifty-two per cent weepy. Mother held 
me close, with no words. My sister and the boys did the 
talking, "Hello, Art, glad them foreign doctors didn't kill 


ye,"' the village hackman remarked. And Prank Chenowethu 
volunteer booking agent for the town's brass band, explained 
that "We were going to have the band boys here, but Scott 
Darling is out of town/' Scott was the pride of Monroe as a 
drummer. He could rat-tat-tat the snare-drum like nobody 
else I ever heard, and the band was no good without him* 
In the family carriage we drove to our home, known as 
the Evergreen Fruit Farm. Carrie, our Scandinavian hired 


girl, had supper all ready for us. But first I had to see Nig, 
the pony which Father had bought for me when I was 
around 1 or 11; he was still frisky and recognized me with 
delight when I patted his head. 

Supper was a gay affair, with much talk. Elizabeth 
North, my favorite Monroe girl, was there, sitting next to 
me. Father, and not I, answered most of the questions. He 
told them how kind Mrs. Stone, the night nurse, had been, 
and he took out of his pocket a thermometer which he had 
brought away from my sick-room as a souvenir, because 
there was a story attached to it. When he found that the 
room was ten degrees cooler than he thought it ought to be, 
he arranged with the concierge to have more heat, then cooled 
the thermometer in a glass of water just before Dr. Delbet's 
arrival, to make it register the lower temperature the latter 
had ordered. When the doctoir came, he said: "It's too warm 
here/' but on looking at the thermometer he said: "No, it's 
correct. It must be I/' 

He recalled incidents of the sea voyages. When he was 
leaving the boat at Havre, a sailor pointed to his collar as if 
something were wrong and Father suspected that the young 
man was alarmed at thinking that he had forgotten to put 
on his necktie, an article of apparel he had never worn in all 
his life* He was past fifty before he would consent to put on 
a tie, and I never saw him wear any kind of clothes except 
dark blue broadcloth* 

I had a good chance to observe him from my sick-bed 
and on the boat and now back home. A ruddy, handsome 
face, with a close-cropped beard. His crudities often amused 
me, but I wondered then and later why it had not been 
Father's fate to be a celebrity. To my mind he was a great 
man. And sometimes I think that just character, regardless 
of ambition to achieve, ought to be the principal test of fame. 

My father had no worldly ambition. I couldn't under- 
stand why one of his popularity among the townspeople and 
farmers did not want to get into political office where he 
could exercise an influence for good in the community. Every- 
body knew Dan Young, knew him to be a man who had 
his own ideas of what was right and friendly to all but for 
political distinction of any kind, he had no yearning. As a 
youngster of ambition I thought that just to be a good man, 


a forthright citizen, was not enough why was he not 
mayor, as the local managers of political affairs wanted him 
to be, at least in one campaign when he was a favorite with 
the Republican leaders? Now I know that to be honored as 
this or that in the Who's Who of political affairs is not 
always the way of a wise man. It may take as much courage 
not to be "distinguished*' as to become so it depends on 
one's own idea of integrity and usefulness, 

Next day I went into town with my younger brother 
Will, visited Father's store, noting improvements there; and 
looked in at the court house and other establishments where 
old acquaintances held forth. Charlie Booth, editor of the 
Weekly Sentinel, interrupted a printing job to welcome me; 
a genial man, he appeared glad always to have his work 
interrupted, so he would have an excuse for conversation. 
There was the usual group discussing politics around the 
courthouse, in various dialects, Fred Lund, the Populist, was 
detailing the wrongs suffered by the farmers under the Harri- 
son administration. 

On the west side of the Square I met up with the Meth- 
odist preacher, who inquired sedately after my welfare. Bill 
Hoesly, the postmaster, wanted to know when I'd have an- 
other exhibition of pictures to hang in the post office. I said 
I appreciated the invitation, but that I lacked inspiration 
and didn't know when I'd get at my drawing again. Elmer 
Peasley told me he had intended to go to Paris when he 
was twenty, but changed his mind after being seasick while 
crossing Lake Michigan. 

Talking with a lot of the old-timers and listening with a 
fresh ear to their voices, I realized clearly for the first time 
what a racial conglomerate was this town in which I had 
grown up. In having this mixture of people from many 
lands, it was of course akin to countless other towns that had 
been formed in pioneer days in Wisconsin, Illinois, Minne- 
sota, and Iowa. Here were New Englanders who had left 
the East for good and found southern Wisconsin about right; 
Germans from a fatherland where war had been flaring up, 
and who liked the idea of peace and democracy; Swiss, who 
came to this region of hills and lakes, seeing it as dairy coun- 
try resembling their own; Norwegians, Swedes, and Danes, 


who stopped here instead of continuing their migration 
toward the upper Mississippi in Minnesota; and a goodly 
proportion of Irish, Scotch, English, and Welsh. 

Having made the rounds of familiar spots in Monroe, 
I was inclined to spend most of my time on the farm in the 
days that followed. It was good to wander in the fields and 
see green things sprouting. I drank in the clean air as if it 
were wine. 

June and fine weather, and arrangements were being 
made for a lawn party at our place, in honor of my return 
from Paris, My sister Nettie, who for five years had been 
Mrs. Clyde Copeland, was the moving spirit behind this cele- 
bration. The idea pleased me, and gave me an incentive to 
draw some pen-and-ink pictures to herald the event, the first 
I had attempted to draw since my illness. My pen-hand 
worked well, and that was good for my morale. These pic- 
tures were sent to Chicago by Charlie Booth to be engraved, 
and were reproduced in the Sentinel with an announcement 
of plans for the party. One of the drawings depicted certain 
leading citizens of Monroe coming to the big event. These 
citizens I had often made sketches of before I left home. Some 
of them I now pictured walking on our telephone wire, with 
balancing poles in their hands, to get to this brilliant social 

Horse-drawn buses brought the guests to the farm. Loads 
of them came the young folks and some of the older ones. 
The party was a distinct success, as those things go the 
grand picnic event of that summer in Monroe. I had never 
realized before how many good-looking girls there were in 
our town, and for once I was the center of attraction. Every- 
body present seemed carefree, and I was congratulated over 
and over again upon having come safely through a critical 
illness and was asked a hundred times if it didn't feel good 
to be home again. And of course the boys and girls wanted 
to hear all about Paris and the Exposition and the Eiffel 
Tower and was the Latin Quarter as naughty as reports 
would lead you to believe? 

Nettie was at her best that day, and Mother was bright- 
eyed and youthful looking as she moved from one group 
to another, to make sure that everyone had enough ham 


sandwiches, coffee, lemonade, strawberries fresh from our 
field, ice-cream, and cake. Father shared the honors, having 
left the store in charge of the clerks. 

Sundays were pleasant days. Father would be at home 
and would trim his beard in the morning with ceremonious 
regularity, while Mother would busy herself with prepara- 
tions for dinner. Hammock, chairs, and a buffalo robe would 
be out on the lawn. Charles and Will and I would read the 
Chicago Sunday Inter-Ocean and George W. Peck's Mil- 
waukee Sun, in which the "Peck's Bad Boy" stories were 
running, and then perhaps try our hand at croquet. After 


dinner Mother would join us on the lawn, and in due time 
somebody would make a pail of lemonade. Often Nettie and 
her husband would join us. 

Sometimes we would get Father and Mother talking 
about pioneer days, and there was rich drama in their mem- 
ories. Father was born in 1838, only six years after the 
Black Hawk War, on a farm near Orangeville in Oneco town- 
ship, Stephenson County, Illinois, a few miles south of the 
Wisconsin line and only ten miles from Monroe* This, too, 
was the spot where I came into the world* As a boy Father 


had plowed with oxen, when the settlers thereabouts were 
still fearful of possible Indian raids, despite government guar- 
antees that there would be no more. Father was the son of 
Stephen and Louisa Miner Young, and Stephen had come 
overland from somewhere in northern New York. Family 
legend says that both the Youngs and the Miners originally 
hailed from rural England. 

My mother's people were Pennsylvania Dutch, which 
means German; her great grandparents had hailed from the 
Palatinate. Her father was Jacob Wagner, her name being 
Amanda. When she was five, her parents and her several 
brothers and sisters traveled by prairie schooner to northern 
Illinois, where they took up a homestead in Stephenson 
county in the same township where my father's people lived. 

When Mother was a young girl on a farm, she and her 
three sisters would go barefooted to the pasture to milk the 
cows* On frosty autumn mornings, once the cows were made 
to stand up, the girls would plant their feet on the ground 
that had been warmed all night by bovine heat. Young people 
went to church, carrying their shoes to save sole-leather and 
putting them on at the church door. Traveling cobblers in 
those days repaired and sold shoes of their own make. 

Father served as a mounted usher at the second of the 
Lincoln-Douglas debates in 1858; this in Freeport, the seat 
of Stephenson county. Some 15,000 people attended, coming 
from as far away as Chicago. The railroads gave excursion 
rates, and the crowds came on special trains, as well as in 
wagons, on horseback, and on foot. 

Stephenson county had been divided on the slavery ques- 
tion, and thus there were big demonstrations for both these 
notable candidates for the United States Senate* Stephen A. 
Douglas had been a member of that body for eleven years, 
and was seeking re-election. On the previous evening the 
Democrats welcomed his arrival from Galena with a long 
torchlight procession. But there was a greater throng on hand 
when a train from Dixon brought Lincoln, the Republican 
nominee, in the morning* 

Lincoln was much the better humored of the two de- 
baters that day, my father remembered. He towered almost 
two feet above his rival* Despite the apparent enthusiasm for 
Douglas shown by the parade, jeers met some of the Senator's 


assertions. When he complained that the interrupters were 
lacking in respect, Lincoln retorted that Mr. Douglas would 
be given respect if he were careful to be respectful to his 

Some man in the overflow crowd back of the speakers' 
platform called out while Abe was voicing an argument, ask- 
ing him to turn around oftener so those in the rear could 
hear him. 

"I'd like to talk to you folks behind me/' Lincoln an- 
swered, "but I think I'd better talk to the majority/' 

Father was always receptive to mechanical progress. Ours 
was the first telephone in Monroe. It connected the store and 
the farm, being powered by storage batteries. Mother didn't 
like it, and said she wouldn't talk into the thing. It got out of 
order easily, but we could sometimes hear simple statements 
like: "Can't get home for supper" the words vague and 
accompanied by such electric sputterings as to cast much doubt 
on the early Bell phones ever being practical Years before 
that innovation a wire had been strung from store to farm 
over which we sent dots-and-dashes messages by hammering 
with a potato masher, or an implement that looked like one* 
on metallic diaphragms encased in walnut boxes. 

To keep up to date, Father never neglected to renew his 
subscription to the Scientific American, He was inventively 
inclined, and got one of the earliest patents on an automatic 
gate-swinger, designed to save farmers the trouble of getting 
out of a buggy or wagon every time they wanted to enter 
or leave their enclosed acres. It didn't work very well, how- 
ever, and I remember how patiently and hopefully I tried 
to manipulate the leverage, hoping that in time Father would 
perfect the device and make money out of it. But after 
repeated trials I found that it was simpler to get out of the 
wagon or dismount from my pony when I wanted to open 
the gate. Yet I still think the underlying theory of that in- 
vention was all right, and simply needed further experiment 
to have made it practicable. 

The leading farm periodicals also came to us regularly, 
and Father was always among the first in that vicinity to 
cultivate any new variety of strawberry, raspberry, potato, 
or other vegetable or fruit. 

Chapter 4 


I HAVE no recollection of my birthplace, but once when 
I was a young man, on a visit home from Chicago in the 

Eighties, I drove out there with Father. The house was 
gone, its site being marked by a depression which showed the 
outlines of the foundation. Father traced the boundaries of 
the farm for me; pointed out the East Forty, and the cow 
pasture. We found the old well, now almost filled in; and 
only a single tumbledown shed remained of the outbuild- 
ings. A wagon wheel was sunk into the grass. And down by 
the creek, still gurgling on its way, we stood where the 
springhouse had been. That was the prototype of the ice-box 
and frigidaire. A simple stone house built around a cold 
bubbling spring, in which to keep eggs, milk, and butter cool 
through the summer heat. 

I was raised on a bottle as they used to put it when 
a mother's breasts went dry. And I can remember playing 
with the artificial breasts that women wore in those days to 
build up a thin bosom. These were heavy round pads with 
white linen covers, filled with sawdust, and were meant only 
for wear on the street or at social functions. But we children, 
getting into everything, bandied them about the house. My 
recollections of the colored fashion plates in Godey's Lady's 
Book seem to go back to the age of three. That publication 
was a regular visitor in our house, for my mother, like most 
pioneer women, was taking notice of correct appearances. 
Reveling in "the pretty pictures," I turned the pages again 
and again. My favorite toys were not soldiers, but Noah's 
Ark and the animals that went in two by two. 

Mother attended the Lutheran church when we lived in 
Illinois. After we moved to Monroe, however, when I was 
a year old in 1867, she went to the Methodist church, which 
was across the way from our house, and she took me along 
for Sunday school. All I remember about this religious expe- 



rience is that one Sunday we each were given a colored card 
with tinseled angels on it. 

My father was not a churchgoer in those days, and when 
I became older I learned that he was an agnostic. But he 
contributed to the local churches regardless of creed, and he 
liked to discuss religion with the local ministers when they 
came into our store. He was well versed in the arguments of 
Robert G. Ingersoll, whose books he had read. In his old age 
he got into the habit of going with Mother to the Universalist 
church every Sunday. 

I must have been about five when there occurred the first 
manifestation of sex that I can recall in my life. Mother 
took me to the home of one of her friends, beyond the rail- 
road tracks south of town. It was fairyland to me as we 
moved along a garden walk, amid blue and pink flowers, 

A girl of my own age was there, and we romped together 
while the two women gossiped. I felt like some playful ani- 
mal chasing this girl around and into secret places, especially 
under a bed. Why couldn't I go on chasing her until some- 
thing happened? There were a couple of similar experiences 
with the same girl when I was eight or nine. Female-like 
or shall I say cat-like she was still on the defensive and 
unyielding. She was on my mind for a long time as a citadel 
to be taken. When I saw the citadel many years later, I didn't 
think it worth taking. But she was the essence of all that was 
beautiful in the world and comes back in my dreams even 
now. If this interests the Freudians, let them make what they 
can of it. 

Mother doted on my blond curls, and made me wear 
them much longer than I wanted to, as she did my kilts. 
I must have been five and a half before I got rid of both 
and she was tearful, of course, when the curls were sheared 
off. She had them saved and kept them for years. Now that 
my hair was cut I made definite declarations of my mas- 

After I grew up my mother would recall the time she 
started to put a kind of Red Riding Hood cape on me. She 
was wrapping it over my shoulders as she had done before 
on rainy days. I protested, saying, "I won't wear it 'cause 
I wore that when I was a girl/' 

Sometimes Pa would let me ride with him to the store, 


where he would give me candy, or an orange. The store 
looked out upon the Square, in the center of which was the 
courthouse. Public celebrations and mass-meetings were held 
there, and parades on Fourth of July and Decoration Day 
always moved through the Square. There, too, the fire de- 
partment held exhibition drills, including speedy ladder scal- 
ing. A lofty flagpole rose near a bandstand. 

Traveling men, pausing in the act of selling a bill of 
merchandise, would make much of me. They were impressed 
by the pictures I was constantly drawing. In the store many 
objects attracted my eyes, especially the picture labels on 
packages and the advertising placards. And I enjoyed look- 
ing at the Chinese posters which were enclosed in chests of tea. 

From infancy I had been fascinated by books, magazines, 
and newspapers with pictures in them. Long before I was 
able to write I had begun to copy those pictures with a pencil 
on any scraps of paper I could find. There was a picture 
advertisement of a livery stable in the Sentinel. That seemed 
to me more interesting and amusing than anything else in its 
columns. It was nothing but a wood-cut of a horse and 
buggy, but the horse was going. Because of continued print- 
ing of that cut for years the whip sticking up from the dash- 
board had thickened until it looked like a heavy club. 

We had fine times we kids* There were four of us. 
When I was five, Charles was eight, Nettie seven, and Will 
three, Charles kept us laughing with tales of fun at school, 
and repeated the "pieces" he spoke on Friday afternoons or 
the last day of a term. We had an Estey organ, which Nettie 
learned to play by note at an early age. 

Fred Darling, the boy next door, knew a lot of valuable 
things. He was eight or nine when I was five, could pick up 
snakes by the tail without fear, and had stories to tell as good 
as many of those in the books that Charles read to me. One 
day Fred had gone with his father out to Big Prairie, beyond 
the poorhouse, to fish for suckers and bullheads in the creek. 
Coming back, he told me he had seen a camp of Indians, and 
he imitated one of their dances and their war whoops: "Yea 
yu! yea yu!" Another time he said he saw an Indian in the 
Square shoot pennies from between the fingers of his small 
son. I asked Father to take me to see the Indians when they 
came to town again. He agreed to, but the redskins did not 


reappear, and I never managed to see them emulate William 
Tell No doubt they had learned at last that they hadn't 
really belonged in southern Wisconsin after the Black Hawk 
War, and were on their way farther west. 

At intervals Mother would feel a need to get away from 
home and would hitch up and drive to Orangeville, to see 
her sisters, taking along one of us children choosing the one 
who had been "the best this week/' Those trips were joyful 
when I was the lucky one, for Aunt Mary would welcome 
us with cookies and jam and maybe salt-rising bread* In after 
years James Whitcomb Riley's "Out to Old Aunt Mary's" 
seemed to me to have been written about my own lovable 

The first book I ever owned was The Three Bears, with 
colored illustrations. Other books which were mine in child- 
hood, and which contained pictures, were Robinson Crusoe, 
Aladdin and the Magic Lamp, and Aesop's Fables. 

My father had a considerable library, or what was called 
a library in those days. That is, he had a collection of books 
which he kept in a locked case called "the secretary/' with 
an overflow of several volumes resting on a table in the sit- 
ting room. I remember especially The Gilded Age, by Mark 
Twain and Charles Dudley Warner; Struggles and Tri- 
umphs, or Forty Years' Recollections, by P. T. Barnum; 
Sunshine and Shadow in New York; Barriers Burned Away 
by E. P. Roe; Robert G. IngersolVs Lectures; The Farmer's 
Almanac; The Lady of the Lake, by Sir Walter Scott; and 
Will Carleton's Farm Ballads most of them illustrated with 

In school my studies were often interrupted by ideas for 
pictures, and I would lose myself in drawing. Geography 
and history interested me more than other school books, 
because the text was relieved by engravings on wood blocks. 
Even at an early age I delighted in the wood-cut. It had 
direct strength and simplicity. I liked a firm line no hesi- 
tancy. Technical-teasing or whispering in art has never ap- 
pealed to me. Whatever the artist has to say he ought to say 
out loud. 

I had no thought of taking drawing lessons; the pictorial 
urge had come naturally. Often I copied pictures out of 


magazines or books, to see if I could improve upon them or 
vary their features. But when I was twelve or so I gave up 
copying, and made it a point, to do original work, either 
from observation of people or things or from imagination* 
My schoolmates watched over my shoulders while I drew 
behind the screen of a geography. I was just being polite to 
my teachers when I used such a screen, for none of them ap- 
peared to mind if drawing encroached upon the studies I 
was supposed to be pursuing. One day I drew a comic picture 
on the long white hair-ribbon of Alice Treat, who sat in 
front of me. I thought she would be annoyed, but she was 
complimented, and I heard that she hung the ribbon over the 
mantel-piece at home. 

To the people of Monroe the long two-story establish- 
ment on the north side of the Square was Dan Young's store, 
but at home we always spoke of it as "our store/' It was a 
gathering place for politicians and other leading citizens, 
and for farmers who came in from the country for miles 
around. Here they swapped horses, told off-color stories, dis- 
cussed the Civil War and the hard times which followed, and 
talked about crops. Their tales were apt to become tall when 
boys were listening, and often I had reason to be skeptical 
of the war reminiscences of some of the veterans. 

The cronies hear the funny cracks. 

All these debaters were rugged individualists, who be- 
lieved there was equal opportunity in the world for every- 
body who was willing to work hard and keep an eye open 
for the main chance. And indeed there was some truth in th 
will-to-power theory in the Eighties. Garfield, widely em- 


blazoned as an ex-canal-boat boy, got into the White House, 
and the Monroe Hot Stove Club echoed the stump-speakers 
and editors who held that "any boy born in the United 
States" might become President. I was frequently reminded 
that a farm boy who looked much like my father also had 
attained to the nation's highest office. . . . The exponents 
of persevering industry and unwavering ambition of course 
never mentioned opportunities for women. Their place was 
still in the home, and the few who stepped put of it for 
public careers met with raised eyebrows if not bitter hostility. 
While the veterans vocalized the part they had played 
in freeing the slaves, and the other talkers figured out what 
was wrong with the country, I stood behind a nearby show- 
case and put their portraits on paper, with contours usually 
exaggerated. The subjects of such caricature were apt to be 
startled by my emphasis on whatever was personal, but 
usually they were flattered by the attention given them by the 
town's only artist. And I was never too busy with customers 
to draw a picture of any one. I was quite willing to postpone 
delivering groceries, or sweeping out the store, or cleaning 
the lamp chimneys. This was at times exasperating to my 
father, but it hastened my artistic education. 

New chances for adventure loomed when Father bought 
the farm a mile north of town. This was about the time 
when I was finishing first grade in school. Father figured that 
he could raise fruit and vegetables in quantity and sell them 
in the store, besides having plenty for ourselves. The farm 
comprised only 20 acres, but it seemed boundless, especially 
when I grew old enough to attempt plowing and was assigned 
to pick potato-bugs off the vines. 

Our house was white, with green blinds, and part of it 
was two-storied. There was an attic with a window where 
on rainy days I would explore amid a hodge-podge of old 
furniture for cast-away clocks and forgotten toys. Out in 
front was a broad, clean lawn on which one could roll a 
long way. A line of evergreen shrubs along the roadside 
added a note of decorative charm. 

In the barn we soon had a cow in addition to our horse; 
later chickens, ducks, and turkeys were added. We raised a 
good deal of sweet corn, which was sliced from the cob by 


knives and then dehydrated (though that word was not used 
then) in a drying house heated by a furnace* Father had 
invented this process, and the dried corn, which would of 
course keep indefinitely, was sold in the store. 

Wagons loaded with grain and produce moved past; 
creaking wheels indicated when a farmer was too poor to 
buy axle-grease or was negligent. "Bummers" in faded army 
uniforms would stop in to ask for a drink at our well, and 
maybe get a meal also. The hired girl was likely to be im- 
patient, classing them when they were out of earshot as 'lazy 
good-for-nothings/' but my mother was sympathetic and 
kind to these uninvited visitors. Once one of them mapped 
the Wilderness battlefield for me, with a stick on the ground, 
and explained the general strategy of Grant's and Lee's forces. 
He was wounded and left for dead on the field, he said and 
after he got out of the hospital he never could find his 
regiment again. 

I was industrious then, and tried to help the hired girl 
with churning but I wasn't fast enough to suit her. She 
said I was "as slow as molasses in January." This term to 
describe slowness was a mid-western idiom and another to 
describe speed was doing a task "in two jerks of a lamb's 

My mother got the notion when I was about 10 that I 
ought to take piano lessons. She talked with Carrie Bloom, 
the town's leading pianist, who consented to see what she 
could do with me. She taught me to play two short exercises, 
but somehow I couldn't play and look at notes at the same 
time. The notes were in the way. Subsequently Mother 
thought Fd better try again, this time with an out-of-town 
teacher, Clara Porter from Janesville. 

By dutiful application I improved considerably, and in 
due time was billed with Miss Porter's other pupils for a 
public concert. In a crowded hall before the elite of Janes- 
ville, I walked to the piano, sat down, and began to play 
The Maiden's Prayer with an affected boldness. Before me 
was the music, and my teacher stood alongside ready to turn 
the leaves. The first few notes went over with a resounding 
confidence. Then suddenly a tremulous stage fright seized 
me. I could go no further. I left the stage a failure and 
Miss Porter's reputation for bringing out the musical talent 


of fond mothers 1 boys and girls got a setback that night. 
I never recovered from this defeat I couldn't talk about it 
for years. 

My recitations and impersonations were better than my 
piano-playing, and various townspeople who heard them 
said I ought to study for the stage. But the actor of the 
family was my brother Charles. I had a deep admiration for 
him when he acted in school plays and other local-talent 
productions. I thought he was of star caliber, and still think 
so. His voice had a noble resonance when he declaimed Mark 
Antony's oration over the body of Caesar: "Look you 
here . . . This was the most unkindest cut of all ... Put 
a tongue in every wound of Caesar, that should move the 
stones of Rome to rise and mutiny." I hear again the rhyth- 
mic echo of his tones in lines like "Men shut their doors 
against a setting sun" and when he cried: "Art thou that 
Thracian robber?" 

Looking at him on or off the stage, I felt that if Booth 
or Barrett only knew him they would say: "Charles Young 
has no equal on the American stage." He never got any 
further, however, than Turner Hall in Monroe and a few 
theatres in nearby towns. Perhaps he didn't take his own 
histrionic talent seriously enough. But I shall always think 
of my brother Charles as a potential interpreter of drama 
who should have become widely known. To the mute in- 
glorious Miltons, one can add the inglorious Booths and 
Macreadys and the unsung of all the arts. 

One of the great days of my boyhood was that on which 
my father presented me with an Indian pony called Nig. 
Father paid $25 for him. Such ponies were brought to our 
part of the country in droves. Nig was coal-black* Two or 
three times a week I rode him, sometimes far into the coun- 
try, and would mount him at a moment's notice, to go on 
some hurried errand provided only that I was not busy 

I can remember how resentful and stubborn I was at 
times when Mother would ask me to go to town for a beef- 
steak if I was absorbed in a picture. I thought she should 
know that my artistic development was more important 
than a steak. She would use diplomacy then, perhaps re- 


minding me that Nig looked lonesome and needed exercise. 
That was her best appeal. 

My passion for riding Nig had become theatrical. No 
doubt about it, I was an exhibitionist. Whether anybody 
saw me or not as I rode, I was "the man on horseback" of 
the future. Especially on Sundays, on long stretches of level 
road, I would let Nig out, and he would run a close race 
with the liveliest wind. I liked to feel his prancing under me, 
see the proud curve of his neck, and hear his fretful hoof- 
beats when he was all lathered up and apparently enjoying 
it as much as I. No one ever saw us in the Square except 
when my mount was dancing. 

Once he threw me I had become too dictatorial and he 
resented it. I was sprawled upon the ground a half mile from 
town on a back street, and Nig ran wildly through the 
Square. People knew from this that something had happened 
to Dan Young's boy and doubtless felt that it served him 
right for getting his pony all het up. 

Father scolded me for letting myself get thrown. "The 
idea! Can't you hang onto a horse? You ought to be 

I was humiliated and was never thrown again. Nig had 
taught me a lesson. I never gave him cause to repeat his anger, 
for it had suddenly dawned upon me that he had rights 
which deserved respect. And after he had cooled down that 
day, Nig was my friend always. I curried him daily and fed 
him his oats for several years. I missed him when I went 
away. In my letters from Chicago and New York I wanted 
to know: "How's Nig?" He lived to be twenty-six years old. 
We owned him more than twenty-three years. 

Another companion of mine then was a coach dog named 
Van, a black-and-white polka-dot Dalmatian who was too 
good for his own good. When I think of the way I batted 
Van around pulling his ears ; using him for a pillow when 
I was inclined to rest, especially on winter nights behind the 
stove; making him jump high for food; fooling him in num- 
berless ways, I marvel that he never turned on me in mad 

I tried to interpret what he would say if he could talk. 
He had a wise look when in repose, as if thinking things 
over. And with what patience he followed under the wheels 


of the family buggy, close to Nig's heels. No matter how 
far we drove, how hot the day, nor how much dust he 
breathed in, he would keep on to the end of the journey. 

Although we had cats, cows, pigs, chickens, geese, ducks, 
etcetera, they were not enough to satisfy Will and myself, 
so we caught woodchucks, owls, and gophers, keeping them 
for a few days to study their habits, and then turning them 
loose again, I was good at mimicking animal voices, and one 
day I was trying to outdo a rooster that was crowing. My 
mother saw rne in the act and said to Nancy Grant, our 
washerwoman, "Hear the rooster, Nancy ?" and Nancy an- 
swered, "Yes, a two-legged rooster/' 

Often I wonder if being raised in daily contact with 
animals is not vitally important in the development of a 
child whatever his future calling may be, One curse of city 
upbringing, I would say, is not to know the constant kinship 
of soil, vegetation, birds, and the so-called dumb creatures. 

Monroe had its share of eccentric characters, mention of 
whom would invariably bring a smile to the faces of their 

Bob Crow was one of these. We boys would cross his 
farm when we went to Banty's Mill to swim in the pond 
there, which had been created by damning up a creek* He 
always contended that a man was not dressed up unless he 
wore a silk hat. And whenever he came to town he was 
adorned with a stove-pipe head-piece such as Abe Lincoln 
used to wear. 

Casper Disch lived out at the poor farm. He had a sunny 
nature, laughing a great deal, 

"Let's see you stand on your ear, Casper/' we would 
say when we met him as we cut across the poorhouse grounds 
to gather walnuts or hunt for birds' eggs. 

And he would immediately oblige. That is, he would 
try energetically to stand on his ear, though he never quite 
succeeded. He seemed to think we were complimenting him 
by making the request. We would say, "All you need is a little 
more practice, Casper/' and he would believe us, 

Billy Rean, the village grouch, was an early subject of 
my caricaturing. He could just sit silently in the Square 
and exude grouchiness like a drum-stove throwing off heat. 



In boyhood I cherished a fond ambition to attain the 
majestic dignity of George Banks, the druggist, who had a 
"bay window" in front and who walked down Main Street 
with his shoulders far back and with the air of a man who 
owned the whole town. Often I would walk behind him and 
imitate his manner, to the great amusement of my mother 
and of others who happened to see my performance. 

Father wanted at least one of us three boys to grow up 
and look after the farm. But none of us leaned toward tilling 
the soil. I tried being an agriculturist, but it soon palled upon 
me. The days were too long and the tasks endless currying 
and harnessing the horses; watering, feeding, and milking the 
cows; feeding hogs; weeding potatoes; making boxes to be 
filled by the hundred berry pickers we employed in season; 
plowing; husking corn, cutting wood; picking potato-bugs 
from the vines and burning them in kerosene. 

There was no money to be made by a farmer's son in 
farm-work. Father had no thought of offering me any in- 
centive; he would pay our hired man, but he regarded it 
as a son's duty to help his parents all he could without wages. 
Of course I got my board, lodging, clothes, but I was inter- 
ested also in having some money to spend. I never could 
keep my mind on the job before me. When I went plowing 
I would put a copy of Pack in one pocket and Harper's 
Weekly in another, and would sit down at the far end of 
the furrows and enjoy myself. 

Charles, my eldest brother, was ambitious to be a soldier. 
He also was fond of reciting poetry. When the Spanish- 
American War broke out he was in the state militia, and was 
quickly promoted to Lieutenant-Colonel. He never caught up 
with the war, but like William Jennings Bryan he got side- 
tracked in Jacksonville, Florida, where he enlivened informal 
camp gatherings with dramatic recitations. Returning home, 
he resumed his partnership with Father in the store and 
continued it until after 1918. 

Will, who was three years younger than I, wanted to go 
to college, and got his wish. He attended the University of 
Wisconsin, was co-founder of the Daily Cardinal there, and 
subsequently was a special feature writer on the New York 
World, managing editor of Hamptons Magazine, author of 


a history of the cigarette, editor of the British government's 
official war films, and producing director of the first " Alice 
in Wonderland" film and of "The Mystery of Life/' a sound 
movie dealing with evolution, in which Clarence Darrow was 

Circuses made every boy's heart beat faster, and perhaps 
they had the same effect on the girls, though I never thought 
to inquire about that. Every boy who was footloose was up 
at the Fair Grounds watching the canvas-hands put up the 
"big top" and unload the animal wagons, but few girls had 
the temerity to hang around; if they did they'd be called 
tomboys. Forepaugh's circus had its winter quarters in Janes- 
ville, 35 miles east Heralded by flamboyant posters, it came 
to Monroe when I was ten or eleven. The town's whole 
population was standing on the sidewalks around the Square 
when the parade came down the hill. Farmers held tightly to 
their horses lest they bolt and run away when the smell of 
the camels and elephants reached them. A man with a silk 
hat in a carriage made a speech repeatedly inviting every- 
body to a free show at the Fair Grounds, to be given by "the 
Tightrope King/' 

Generally I got money from Father and went with my 
tall chum, Harry Everett. School had been let out for the 
afternoon. I liked the waxworks in the sideshow, and the 
animals, and fell in love with the winsome girl who danced 
on the cushioned back of a galloping white horse. Harry 
went into the circus in the midst of a half dozen other boys, 
bending his knees so he could get in for a quarter. If he had 
stood straight up they would have charged him full admis- 
sion price. 

Next day I did an artistic production at school which 
was a nine days' sensation, All along the blackboards in my 
room I drew a circus parade with chalk band-wagon, ele- 
phants, camels, horses, wild animals in cages, clowns, calliope, 
and the rest. Emma Van Wagenen, my teacher, brought 
in Mr. Donaldson, the principal, to see this pageant, and 
numerous boys and girls brought their parents to marvel at 
it Miss Van Wagenen was apologetic when it finally became 
necessary to have the parade erased, and in fact it was re- 
moved only one section at a time. But I didn't mind seeing 


those chalk pictures destroyed. I could draw others just as 
good any time. My ego was flowering. 

And in another school vacation I did better than that, 
with my brother Will's energetic aid. With several other boys 
we were putting on a show at the home of Eddie Mack. 
Having constructed a tent out of old carpets and other stray 
pieces of cloth, Eddie's father allowed us to pitch it on the 
spacious Mack lawn. 

This was to be no ordinary kid-show, but one on a 
grand scale, like Barnum's. So we must have a street parade. 
Will borrowed all the available boys' wagons and topped 
them with cages made of wooden grocery boxes. In these we 
put various animals and birds that we had caught wood- 
chucks, rabbits, hawks, gophers, and snakes. 

I decorated the cages with tropical scenes one being a 
tiger hunt with bright red, green, purple, and yellow pre- 
dominating. This presentation was designed to impress the 
beholder with the idea that our menagerie was the most 
wonderful collection of wild beasts in captivity. 

My masterpiece of our glittering enterprise was the cage 
containing a water-snake, which I adorned with a depiction 
of an Indian shooting a boa-constrictor with bow and arrow. 
To the wagon which bore that exhibit we hitched Fred 
Schuler's dog. 

With an improvised brass band, drum major, clowns, 
and my pony Nig, we paraded through the principal streets 
and around the Square, amid the plaudits of Monroe's busi- 
ness men, who remembered that they were once boys them- 

At the show grounds we took in about 50 cents, the ad- 
mission price being one cent. It was a great day. 

This experience might well stand as an epitome of many 
an artist's life fun in the doing of his job but with small 
returns on the investment of talent, time, and energy. 

One summer the Wisconsin countryside was swept by a 
revival of religion. Widely advertised evangelists held forth 
at meetings in a tented grove outside the town. Here they 
would exhort their congregations day and night, making 
scarlet sinners "white as snow." Scores of people I knew, 
including two of my cousins, "got the power/' These cousins 


seemed so happy that I went with them to the camp meeting, 
and tried to get it. But in spite of the hard work of the 
eloquent soul-saver on the platform, the "power" evidently 
was not for me. 

The best part of the revivals, I thought, was the songs, 
such as Bringing in the Sheaves and Shalt We Gather at the 
River? and the sad, sweet longing for some place to go to 
that sounded better than Monroe, in that rousing old hymn, 
Sweet Beulah Land. It was easy for me to play those tunes 
on our family organ, by ear. 

In Turner Hall we saw Uncle Tom's Cabin, East Lynne, 
Hy Henry's Minstrels, Diabolo the Fire Demon and once 
we had Janauscheck, a noted Polish actress. Topping all 
these, to my mind, was a comedian named Jake Simons, 
whom I picked for success but who never arrived. The charm 
of his funniness lay in its simplicity. He could make his audi- 
ence laugh by just standing still and saying nothing, doing 
nothing except letting his feelings play across his face as he 
listened to the talk of other performers on the stage. He knew 
the value of slow motion, 

What an enviable life actors and actresses led, traveling 
all over the country, seeing the sights, meeting important 
people, having their names on show-bills, and being ap- 
plauded nightly! I had grown restless early in my teens, and 
the theatrical companies which came to town fed my urge 
to get away to the bigger world outside. 

Chapter 5 

ONE of my sorrows in adolescent days was a nose with 
the habits of a chameleon** If I had been born with 
a club-foot or a stammering tongue it could not have 
caused me more worry than that unruly beak. From child- 
hood it would take on the color of blue, pink, plain red, or 
carnation, depending upon sluggish circulation or the weather, 
or both. Too much sun or too much cold would make it 
conspicuous over my other features. 

A spanked and cry-baby complexion was my booby-gift 
from the gods, while all other Youngs near or distantly re- 
lated were endowed with normal coloring and were pleasing 
to look at under all adversities of digestion, liver complaint, 
or extremes of climate. My cheeks were often pink and my 
mouth usually a juicy red, but the flush of full rosy dawn 
seemed to prefer hitting me right on the snoot. 

Yet despite that nose I was always popular, especially 
with the girls. They still tell in Monroe how this odd boy 
was the cause of a battle royal between two of the village 
belles, Lena Myers and Nettie Booth. On the south side of 
the Square, with people looking on and enjoying the show, 
they fought and scratched and tore each other's clothes, all 
for the honor of being the sweetheart of yours truly. 

This affair was the talk of the town. All other honors 
I have received since pale into insignificance beside it* I can- 
not remember now which girl was considered victorious, and 
perhaps the outcome was not clear. Enough for me to know 
that I was the cause of such a sensation, a gossip subject for 
weeks. Doubtless it was my ability to draw pictures which 

* After reaching the age of 60 I began to be described by various metro- 
politan writers as one who "looks like an angel much the worse for wear and 
tear", as "a Santa Claus without whiskers", and again as ''one who might 
pass for the kind of capitalist he likes to ridicule/' Peggy Bacon states in her 
book, Off With Their Heads, that I have "a light comedy nose." But to have 
that invaluable part of my anatomy dismissed with such a casual observation by 
that merciless analyst of looks, was not Peggy at her best. 



led them to forget my comic nose and to contend for my 
favor. Is it because women are themselves creative (or better 
say procreative) that they are inclined to admire those who 
can create in the arts? I think there is something to that. 

After I got out in the world, so conscious did I become 
of the blushing shine of my nose on occasions, that I took to 
carrying in my vest-pocket a piece of chamois laden with 
talcum powder. With this I would surreptitiously tone down 
the offending organ if I had to attend a public affair. Close 
friends told me that I exaggerated the importance of per- 
sonal appearance, and harbored unduly high ideals of physi- 
cal perfection. And perhaps I was inclined to look too closely 
for my own defects and eccentricities as I looked for them in 
others as a caricaturist. 

Disgust with my facial map was lessened somewhat, 
however, when I began to read history and learned about 
the bodily shortcomings of the great that Lincoln's ears 
were abnormally large, that Alexander Pope was a hunch- 
back, Sir Walter Scott had a lame leg, Michelangelo a broken 
nose, and so on. And talking with people, I could see that 
often those really worth while were excessively freckled, had 
too much mouth, or were lacking in some other way. 

With all my self-consciousness about looks (and it may 
be a feminine streak that is said to be in every artist) , I have 
long had a dislike for individuals who judge others by surface 
aspects, whether it be a matter of clothes regarded as incor- 
rect for the occasion, a spot on a shirt-front, or need of a 
shave. Keeping up appearances all too often is the concern 
of persons who have nothing else worth keeping up. 

My contacts with girls when I was a growing boy were 
of course necessarily superficial. However much I felt the 
need of some sex association, I was hemmed in on all sides 
by the religious, puritanical taboo that young people must 
not mate in advance of marriage. That taboo was always 
sounding, like a bell-buoy in the seas, always warning me 
lugubriously against the traditional ''evil/* It kept me living 
in a world of self-deceptive morality* On every hand I was 
told of the evil of sex indulgence, and 'lost manhood" ad- 
vertisements by quack doctors helped build up fear within 
me of sexual diseases. 

When I was about fourteen I heard a sermon by the Rev. 


Mr* Bushnell in the Methodist Church on "Carnal Sin/' 
Carnal was a new word to me, but there was no mistaking 
what he meant. He condemned the sexual act without qualifi- 
cation. Quoting the Bible, he skipped the pages where the 
tribes of Israel seemed to do nothing but "begat" day and 
night. All this I read in later years. My youthful mind began 
struggling with the problem of how Mr. Bushnell could 
be the father of seven children without having gravely sinned. 
Why didn't he say that over-indulgence in sex or excess 
gratification of any physical or emotional appetite was evil? 
But no; it was wrong any way you looked at it. And his 
sermon had the effect of making me think of him ever after- 
ward as a pulpit-pounding fraud, full of sin himself but 
demanding that others remain pure. 

Despite all the apparent hypocrisy of certain leaders of 
moral conduct in our town, I was infected during those 
formative years with the thought that sexual union was 
really a sin. The grown folks said so so it must be so. And 
this dictatorship of bourgeois morality in the life of a small 
community made of one young man something of an ascetic 
who loved vicariously all the girls he looked at and who 
looked at him, that being as far as he dared go. 

I hark back to my first feeling for poetry. In a school- 
book was a line: "The wind came howling over the moun- 
tain." What the story was I don't recall. Lines in another 
book which conjured up a poetic sense within me were: 

Over the river they beckon to me 

Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side; 

The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 

But their voices are drowned in the rushing tide. 

That was a long poem, and sad, but it sounded pretty 
good to my crude young mind. 

Then I got hold of a volume of Longfellow. "The 
Bridge at Midnight" and "The Old Clock on the Stairs" 
were quite up to my country-boy standard of real poetry. 
But I never read novels nor serial stories. I saw my brother 
Will reading Golden Days and the Youth's Companion, and 
I felt that my lack of interest in them marked me as mentally 


deficient Novel reading called for wading through too much 
type, I had no patience for that The very word "fiction" 
I abhorred. I wanted truth. Short stories, poems, paragraphs, 
brief essays, picture books anything boiled down was more 
to my liking. 

Dante's Inferno was the first book to give me a real 
thrilL I thought Dore's drawings in it remarkable, and I 
became exceedingly curious about his work. No one in town 
owned a Dore Bible, the highest priced table book of the 
period, but I soon began to see Dore's pictures in magazines. 
Who was he? Then a man came to town opportunely and 
lectured about Dore in Wells's Opera House, Admission 15 
cents. It seems strange that the visiting lecturer on that sub- 
ject could have hoped to draw much of an audience in a 
town of 2,000 in 1881. But there was a goodly turnout > 
and I suppose the explanation is that anyone coming to a 
town of that size to lecture about anything was an event* 

That was a great night for me, I was the town's fifteen- 
year-old prodigy in art and I remember the people turning 
to look in my direction as the speaker proceeded. Edith Eaton 
leaned over and said: "This ought to interest you, Artie. " 
I sat there fascinated, especially by the lantern slides of the 
imaginative Dore's paintings and illustrations. Fires of am- 
bition flamed within me. I must escape from the humdrum 
life of Monroe, and get away to Chicago, There, I felt, lay 
my big chance, Chicago newspapers were just beginning to 
use pen drawings. If I could only get to the Windy City 
and show samples of my work to an editor, I was sure I 
could get a job. I thought of mailing some specimens, but 
reconsidered. The proper way, I decided, was to go forth 
with a flower in my buttonhole, a portfolio of pictures under 
my arm, and compete on the ground, 

I didn't graduate. Professor Twining, the high school 
principal, who was my last teacher, apparently wasn't con* 
cerned about that. He knew that I spent most of my time 
drawing, and was tolerant when I flunked in my classes, 
Evidently he deemed it more important for me to follow 
my artistic bent than to gain marks in the cut-and-dried 
curriculum of those days. Spelling was the one study at which 
I was good. I had another year to go when I quit school 


but I felt that I was getting dumber and dumber each term, 
and that it would be a waste of time to continue, 

No matter what other possible careers I contemplated in 
day-dreams, I always came back to making pictures. I prac- 
ticed on all the town's personalities which were in any way 
distinctive or eccentric, caricaturing every one of consequence 
around the Square. My subjects included Strawn Shrake, 
leader of the Monroe brass band; John Bolender, grocer and 
mayor; Arabut Ludlow and Joe Treat, bankers; Dr. Hall 
and Dr. Loofborough; Charles Booth, editor of the Weekly 
Sentinel; A. C. Dodge, Pete Wells, and Bill Rean, local 
business men; fat Louis Schutze, proprietor of the Green 
County House, and Alderman Fred WettengeL Most of them 
took it in good part, no matter how loosely I played with 
their features. 

But my chef d'cettvre of that time was a pen sketch, in 
color, portraying our leading lawyers Colin Wright, A. S. 
Douglas, H. J. Dunwiddie, and P. J. Clawson in character- 
istic attitudes before the Green county bar. This was exhibited 
in the window of Father's store, where for weeks it con- 
stantly drew onlookers, 

I had been doing a lot of such pictures at home, show- 
ing them to a few people, and then putting them aside. I 
was drawing more and more, day and night especially 
night, by the light of a kerosene lamp. One day, however, 
I handed Bill Hoesly, our postmaster, a sketch of himself, 
in no sense complimentary. But Bill said: 

"I don't think I'm that good lookin', Art. But I hear 
you got quite a gallery of pictures of better lookin* fellers 
than me at home. How about letting the public see them? 
There's a nice blank wall goin* to waste. I guess Uncle Sam 
wouldn't object if you tacked up some of your masterpieces." 

That was real encouragement. I hurried home and was 
back in an hour with several drawings that I felt proud of. 
The only one I can remember now was that of a sergeant 
drilling a squad of soldiers, and each soldier a comic of some 
young man I knew about town, Bill helped me tack them up, 
chuckling. Everybody in town saw those pictures, and every- 
body I met commented on them. I enjoyed that taste of 

An offer of a substantial cash prize by the Waterbury 


Watch Company to amateur artists for the best pen-and-ink 
illustrated advertisement of its popular dollar watch caused 
me to get busy. Painstakingly, and with considerable imagi- 
nation for a boy of fourteen, I worked out a somewhat 
elaborate but symmetrical and rather impressive sketch de- 
signed to occupy a full page of some current magazine. I 
got no prize for this effort, but received a letter commend- 
ing my picture, I still feel that mine was as good as the prize- 
winner. Artists will notice in this drawing the influence of 
the Thomas Nast cross-hatch technique. 

I got into a jam over one picture I made when I was 
sixteen, P. J, Clawson, then district attorney, was running 
for re-election. His opponents prevailed upon me to draw a 
cartoon showing P. J. before and after election. In the first 
scene he was shaking hands with his constituents and beaming 
upon them. In the second he was walking along as if he were 
the only person on earth. That was not a diplomatic move 
on my part for I was enamored of the district attorney's 
daughter Sophia, and had been spending some of my eve- 
nings at their home. 

My lampoon was exhibited in an upright showcase in 
Father's store, and P. J, almost burst with indignation when 
he heard about it. He forbade his daughter ever to see me 
again, and walked into the store brandishing his cane, de- 
manding to know where I was. Hearing that he was gunning 
for me, I stayed at home for a few days, working indus- 
triously on the farm* 

Despite the manifest truth in my cartoon, P, J, was 
elected again and having emerged from the campaign * 'tri- 
umphant over traducers/' as he said in a victory speech, he 
soon cooled down. Presently I was going around with Sophia 
once more, but whenever P X saw me, for a long while 
after that, he always scowled and looked as if he still owed 
me a beating. 

Not long after this I made a sketch, the effects of which 
taught me that propaganda may sometimes stir people into 
action, but produce an undesirable result I drew in water 
colors a likeness of myself addressing a classic figure of a 
woman emblematic of public opinion, while members of the 
Green County bar were grouped around her. Beneath were 
the words; "Here you have lawyers to be proud of* Why 

tf 1 

name backward. 




don't you wake up and build a courthouse you also can feel 
proud of?" . . . Eventually the citizens did bestir them- 
selves (or rather the politicians and contractors did) , tore 
down the old courthouse, and built a new one; and my 
cartoon which set them thinking hung for many years in 
the office of the county clerk, Frank Corson, who had always 
been an admirer of my work. But the new courthouse, while 
much larger and more adequate to the needs of the growing 
town, never looked so picturesque as the old one. That 
edifice had simple lines and the mellowness of a weather- 
beaten landmark, I wish I had let it alone. 

Clerking in Father's store began to pall upon me. I knew 
I was not a good clerk, and so did everybody else. For a 
time I thought it might be sensible to apply for a job in one 
of Monroe's three carriage shops. It would be easy to make 
stripes and rococo flourishes on carriages and wagons. And 
if I could just be around where others were using brushes 
and paint, I could develop in my own way and perhaps make 
a little money. 

A handsome old gentleman named Austin, an English- 
man, was an expert carriage painter in one of those shops. 
He had a private studio on a side street, where he made 
enlarged copies from chromo reproductions of popular paint- 
ings. Knowing that he was rather gruff and taciturn, I 
watched him from outside of his front window, but never 
ventured inside. Often I stood fascinated, while he slowly 
brushed on his oil colors as he copied Landseer's famous 
"Monarch of the Glen/' or "The Stag at Bay/' which were 
his specialties. Some of these faithful copies he sold in town 
others, I imagine, he gave away, At a party one evening 
in the home of the well-to-do McCrackens I saw Austin's 
duplicate of the "Monarch of the Glen" hanging above their 
new piano. 

I wondered then if I couldn't open a studio and make a 
living. Mr; Austin had, and managed to support a family. 
I must become master of my own fate no more clerking in 
a store. 

While I pondered this desire, Clyde Copeland, the town's 
leading photographer, suddenly discovered that he could 
make a place for me in his establishment Clyde was an alert. 


genial fellow, who had been keeping company with my sis- 
ter Nettie. He couldn't pay much, he explained maybe $3 
a week but I would have a chance to learn the photograph 
business. Though I was secretly doubtful whether I would 
care to devote my life to photography, I accepted the job 

One inducement to make the Copeland studio my head- 
quarters was the fact that Elizabeth North was employed 
there as reception girl She was the daughter of R B. North, 
who owned a livery stable near the American House. Fred 
North was a favorite of mine, not only because he had a 
rugged face I liked to draw, but because he knew so much 
about horses and had raised them on a farm of his own. 
I had known Elizabeth casually in school. Now I learned 
that she had certain cultural leanings. She read good books, 
and showed keen interest in my work. I liked to make pencil 
drawings of her head with its wavy, dark brown hair and 
large, well-lashed eyes. 

Clyde patiently explained to me the whole technique of 
his profession. I listened attentively, but the process seemed 
intricate and formidable. I don't know how much Clyde 
really expected me to learn about photography but if he 
expected much, I must have disappointed him. 

This experience among photographs impelled me to do 
a lot of thinking about the value of the creative draftsman. 
Of what use was my talent? What could I do that a photog- 
rapher could not? I was drawing "by hand/' painstakingly, 
while here was a machine that merely winked its eye and 
there was a picture. Where was this invention leading? I was 
not much interested in the technical side of photography. 
About all I became proficient at in the Copeland gallery 
was taking tintypes. Occasionally I would do retouching and 
watch photographic prints in the process of developing and 

Joshua Sweifel, a Swiss boy with a marked dialect, did 
most of the work requiring skill. He spent a good deal of 
time in the dark room "devil-upping," as he called it, while 
I puttered around with odd jobs, "devil-uppiiig" in my own 
way, and wondering if my hand-drawn pictures would ever 
find a place in the world. 

Clyde knew, of course, that my strongest interest lay in 


drawing, and with his co-operation I had a booth (which 
I called a "studio") built for myself. Little larger than a 
modern telephone booth, it was covered with canvas and 
was on wheels, so that it could easily be moved about. Sit- 
ting in this cubicle, I could close myself in and make cartoons 
in complete seclusion. 

The more I thought about photography, the more I was 
troubled by it. Was it the open sesame to visual truth? I was 
skeptical and yet I was being lured into a false regard for 
the product of this machine, as something to emulate. Often 
I would think: "If I can't draw as realistically, and catch 
light and sliade accurately enough so that my pictures will 
beat a camera, then I'd better give up/' Wasn't my eye as 
sharp and sensitive as a lens? 

Above all things I knew I wanted the ttuth, and it ap- 
peared, except for color, right here in a photograph. It fooled 
me, and I tried to make pictures with the detail-quality of 
photographs, I even tried pasting facial photographs of vil- 
lage acquaintances on my drawing paper and doing their 
bodies and surroundings in free-hand draftsmanship. But I 
didn't like the result. The photograph spoiled the whole 

My fear of the camera as a competitor was relieved, how- 
ever, by humorous incidents in the gallery, especially the 
posing of people to whom it was a new experience. There 
were many pictures of couples just married the barbered 
groom sitting and the bride standing just so, with a hand 
modestly gripping her husband's shoulder but nevertheless 
conveying the idea that she had finally caught him. No bride 
and groom could be posed in any other way. That was the 
law of the new photographic art. 

Sometimes a wife and her daughters would bring the 
head of the household to be photographed, and he would 
register deep pain in the process, As a rule the early settler 
didn't want to be bothered having his picture taken, but the 
others would insist upon it as a social duty. They would 
comb the chaff out of Pa's hair and whiskers in a dressing- 
room and lead him to the slaughter, watching him closely 
as he posed in the clamp of a head-rack for his family's sake. 


If photography has become an ''art/' what kind is it? 
Let me inject here my mature conclusions for what they may 
be worth, on this phenomenon the candid camera which 
has almost overwhelmed the graphic arts. 

A photograph is the surface of something. Of course an 
artist is concerned with surface appearances, but only as a 
means of penetrating to the spirit of the thing. Through his 
own temperament he reveals the way he is impressed as a 
beholder of the scene* The artist's emotional reactions to the 
subject before him, and his obligation to stress its essentials, 
are the main factors in a work of art. Sensitive to every 
element in nature, the draftsman finds his hardest task in 
sacrificing the extraneous detail of his subject, and he is forced 
to perform many difficult operations, while holding fast to 
that which is good for his purpose. 

Real art transcends the personal and the particular. The 
photographer cannot make a portrait nor anything else that 
is not a documentary picture of a particular thing, however 
skilful he may be in the professional tricks of subduing and 
heightening the effects of light and shade. He cannot make 
a picture that is not specific and therefore lacks universality. 
Art must transcend positive truth to reveal it. 

A photograph of your grandfather or mine may show a 
noble head and features of unusual character, but it does not 
belong in the realm of great art, because it is only one grand- 
father, documented and exact. Even a silhouette of a person 
in the foreground of a photograph, though the detail is lost 
in the darkness and therefore something is left to the im- 
agination, also looks too much like a certain person. A good 
illustrator may draw from models but knows how to forget 

A painter knows how to draw human beings, but he uses 
them not so much to identify individuals as to represent the 
kind of human beings they are. The best portraiture is not 
the accurate measurements up and down and across the face, 
but the sensation created in the artist's mind from watching 
the subject, and his ability to capture whatever is character- 
istic. A photograph does not stimulate the imaginative mood 
as good music, poetry, or painting does. In short, photog- 
raphy is too literal. And yet I would call it one of the greatest 
inventions of the nineteenth century because of its useful- 


ness to science and its documentary utility in all the arts* 
As a pictorial feature of magazines it has been vastly over- 
done and is tiresome. 

I grew steadily more confident in those early days of 
photography that it would never successfully compete with 
the art of the cartoon, and that there would be no invasion 
by the camera of that field of art where ideas, imagination, 
fancy, and symbolism are factors of supreme importance. 
There the hand-drawn pictures would always find an appre- 
ciative public. 

In the decade following the Civil War the American peo- 
ple lauded Thomas Nast's cartoons of Boss Tweed, and the 
story goes that Tweed, fleeing from the law, was captured 
in a Spanish port because he was identified through Nast's 
well-known caricatures. For the police records, no doubt, 
photographs would have been better. Nast's cartoons did not 
look so much like Tweed if you compared them with photo- 
graphs; they were more than mere realism. The person of 
Tweed was recreated and emphasized by Nast, who knew 
the powerful truth of figurative expression. He found that 
he could exaggerate Tweed's jowls and general facial con- 
struction in a way to suggest a money-bag and still further 
convey the idea with a belly- front that resembled another big 
bag of cash. And he showed the boss of New York City in 
arrogant postures defiantly saying: "What are you going to 
do about it?" 

To add to the marvelous realism of the camera in my 
boyhood there was the stereoscope, to be found on the parlor 
table in nearly every home. Everybody enjoyed looking 
through this device, which made photographs three-dimen- 
sional. One had the feeling that the camera had pictured the 
very atmosphere. I would peer through the lenses of our 
stereoscope spellbound at a man standing on the bank of a 
tree-girt lake it was so true to life the last word in pic- 
torial representation, except for motion and color. And now 
in this epoch, color, three dimensions, and sound are becom- 
ing the common additions to photographic actuality* 

Clyde Copeland never complained that he didn't get the 
worth of his money while I '* worked" in his gallery, so per- 
haps I earned what I got. Or maybe he felt that he was help- 
ing a deserving youth toward an art career. 


Will Monroe, a school-chum of my brother Charles, was 
studying to be a doctor at Bellevue Hospital in New York. 
Will had always been interested in my pictures. He wrote to 
Charles, saying that if I would send him some drawings he 
would take them around to the magazines. He was sure they 
were marketable. 

Judge liked a picture I had made of a boy dragging a dog 
by the neck while a meddlesome old pedant protested: "Why, 
this is an ignominy/* To which the boy answered: "Naw, 
'tain't neither, it's nothin' but a common pup/' Not a very 
good joke, but it should be remembered that at that time the 
comic papers were fond of jests that ridiculed literary 
Bostonese. Judge sent me a check for seven dollars, and I 
was prancing along the road to fame and fortune. 

Monroe could not hold me long after that. I was con- 
vinced that Opportunity was knocking insistently at my door. 
A few weeks passed, punctuated by debates with my parents 
on the relative chances of an artist in a big city and in a 
town of 2,250 population. Then I packed a valise, wrapped 
up the best of my drawings, and bought a ticket for Chicago. 
I was then seventeen. 

My mother was tearfully concerned lest some dark evil 
befall me in the city. The old story: "breaking home ties/' 
I had said goodbye to Elizabeth the night before. Father came 
over to the train with me. "You'll get along/' he said. Mr. 
Puffer, the cheerful station agent, yelled: "Don't buy any 
gold bricks, Art," and old Joe Gleissner, who drove the bus 
to and from the depot, and who always got the well-known 
maxims twisted, said: "Veil, Artie, a rolling stone gathers 
some moss yah!" My brother Charles rode down to Chi- 
cago with me to see that I was comfortably located. The 
sky was bright as the train sped across the miles toward the 
promised land. 

Chapter 6 

MY first residence in Chicago was a dump of a boarding 
house on Wabash Avenue near 15th Street. The 
place had been recommended by Mel Morse, railroad 
baggageman in Monroe, who happened to know the land- 
lady. From my window, which faced the West, I could see 
slums and low life, and also the constant movement of the 
masts and riggings of boats in the Chicago River nearby. 
At this window I began my professional career as a cartoon- 
ist, with an improvised easel and the handicap of having no 
heat in winter. Whatever the hardships, I was determined 
to get ahead and to make my way without asking for money 
from home. 

In the next room was an old fellow from Texas who 
thought he knew politics and considered himself an unrecog- 
nized statesman. Immediately he set out to enlist my talent 
on an idea he had for a cartoon. He was sure that Harper's 
Weekly would jump at the chance to publish it. I drew the 
picture, mailed it to Harper's, and it came back in a few 
weeks with regrets from the editor. I have that cartoon yet, 
and looking at it now I can see that there was a good deal 
of merit in the old Texan's idea. 

Immediately I signed up at the Academy of Design, 
which was later merged with the present Art Institute. Here 
I began to learn the fundamentals of anatomy under John 
H. Vanderpoel. Short and deformed, and voicing tart humor, 
this instructor was crisp and direct in his criticism. When a 
student's drawing was bad, he would go over it with a 
firm black line and point out the mistakes. He gave each of 
us individual attention. 

Soon after entering the Academy, I went forth with a 
portfolio of drawings and called on the W. M. Hoyt Com- 
pany, a wholesale grocery house which published a trade 
paper called the Nimble Nickel. I had seen this periodical in 



my father's store and had sent some sketches to the editor, 
receiving in return a friendly letter indicating the possibility 
of my drawing regularly for him* His name was Eugene J. 
HalL His handshake was hearty, and after we had talked 
a few minutes about the aims of the Hoyt house-organ and 



the power of attraction which lay in illustrations, he took 
me in to meet A. C Buttolph, the business manager, who 
looked over my samples and saw humor in several of my 
Monroe caricatures. 

It was readily agreed that comics were needed to liven 
up the Nimble Nickel, and I was told to go ahead and submit 
whatever I thought would fit into its editorial scheme. The 

Nimbi* Nicktl 

Chicago wholesale grocery company's publication. 1884. 

pay would be according to the firm's idea of value in each 
instance. In three days I was back with some drawings, in- 
cluding one of a man wearing a plug hat and brandishing a 
big cleaver, labeled "Great Slaughter of Prices/* These offer- 
ings were immediately accepted, and I wrote home jubilantly* 
The next Monday morning a check for $5 came. Week 
after week I submitted other pictures to Mr* Hall, with slo- 
gans or text designed to pull business from retail grocers, 
and nearly all were taken. Sometimes I was paid $7, and 
occasionally $10, and this regular income covered the cost 
of two terms in the Academy. 


To the stand-up collar which I had adopted before leav- 
ing home, I had added to my wardrobe an artist's flowing 
black bow tie, and began buying clothes a bit different from 
the conventional style. I made friends easily, probably be- 
cause I was interested in everybody and everything, and I 
imagined people saying behind my back: "Rather queer, but 
he means well/' Anyhow, I hoped they were saying some- 
thing like that, 

Chicago was fascinating, the crowds downtown amazing. 
The corners at State and Madison streets were crowded 
with people at all hours, like nothing, I thought, except 
the business section of Monjroe on circus day* I wandered 
around in the evenings seeing the sights the Clark Street 
Dime Museum; the old Exposition Building on Michigan 
Avenue, when something was going on there; McVicker's 
Theatre, where drama and melodrama were played; and oc- 
casionally, Sam T. Jack's burlesque house, that being a time 
when big-hipped women were the rage among male con- 

Then there was the Battle of Gettysburg cyclorama, in 
a round brick building, on Wabash Avenue* I passed it daily 
on my way to the Academy, and after a couple of weeks 
could no longer resist the temptation to go inside. It was 
a circular mural showing the various phases of that decisive 
battle, a curious mixture of romanticism and realism, painted 
by the French artist Henri Philippoteaux. A lecturer re- 
counted the movements of the armies on the field. Glory of 
war was portrayed here, but the bloodiness of the scene 
should have been sufficient antidote to cure any onlooking 
youth of a wish for a military career. Cavalry dashed across 
the broken terrain, men and horses fell dying, billows of 
cannon-smoke rolled across the field, infantry pressed on to 
bayonet charges in the enemy's trenches, a flag had fallen 
and was being picked up again* That cyclorama stayed a 
long time, and was well patronized by visitors from the 

On Sundays I would find new streets to explore, or 
would take a cable car to one of the parks. When walking 
I was always on the lookout for displays of pictures in art 
store windows, confident that some day mine also would 
be shown thus. And constantly I was sketching scenes along 


the way. Foreign faces and the picturesque garb of aliens 
were much in evidence in Chicago then, for great numbers 
of immigrants were arriving every year Germans and Irish 
mainly, also Jews, Italians, and Poles. 

During my first year in Chicago, it seemed to be my fate 
that no matter where I moved I would find myself living in 
a bawdy house. After a few months in the place on lower 
Wabash Avenue, I moved two blocks north, where there was 
a row of houses with dignified doorways, stone steps, and 
front yards with trees and iron fences. In one of these houses 
I took a room. Compared with my first quarters, this was 
like dwelling in a palace. 

The landlady who rented me the room had moist eyes 
and painted cheeks, and lots of rings on her fingers. I hadn't 
seen women dressed like this in Monroe, but I was prepared 
to encounter odd customs in the city, and thought nothing 
of her appearance except to admire her for putting on an 
abundance of jewelry, lace, and paint, if such was her taste. 
For she was pleasant-voiced and cordial. 

I hadn't been at my new address more than a few weeks 
when I observed that a well-dressed man who looked and 
acted like one who was incognito appeared there each Satur- 
day and slept late on Sunday. Two or three times I saw him 
in the landlady's room when the door happened to be ajar. 

"Aha!" said this Wisconsin youth to himself. "It doesn't 
look respectable around here." I felt a bit self-conscious, and 
pondered what my parents would say if they knew where 
I was living. 

There was a cab out in front a few days later, and an 
attractive blonde girl alighted and tripped up our steps, 
carrying a satchel. I was just coming downstairs. The land- 
lady beamed on me and introduced her younger sister, who 
had come to visit her from St. Joseph, Michigan. 

"Mr. Young is the artist I told you about in my last 

"Oh!" the blonde exclaimed sweetly. "I want so much to 
see your pictures. May I?" 

I was a little embarrassed by her curiosity, but I managed 
to say: "It will be a pleasure." 


Next day there was a knock at my door while I was 
drawing* She had come to pay a call, in a gay pink frock. 

"Hellooo!" she said. "Am I interrupting your work? Or 
may I come in?" 

Again I was embarrassed, for I wasn't used to entertain- 
ing young women. But her self-assurance was refreshing, and 
I asked her to sit down. We immediately found a good deal 
to talk about what she had seen and liked or disliked in 
Chicago (she had been over on State Street shopping with 
her sister) , the fun she had had coming across Lake Michigan 
on the boat, and what life was like in St. Joe, Then she 
reminded me of the pictures, and I brought forth many 
sketches that I had stored up, copies of the Nimble Nickel 
containing my stuff, and the exhibit which I always put fore- 
most the copy of Judge in which the dog joke had been 

Her name was Clara and she did not gush over my work, 
but displayed just the right amount of enthusiasm over the 
drawings that she particularly liked. Sometimes our hands 
accidentally touched and she didn't seem to mind. Her fingers 
were slim and tapering and well cared for. 

Then we talked some more, and I asked questions about 
her. She was about my age, and since she left high school 
she had been keeping house for her parents. She didn't know 
yet what she wanted to do, whether to take a business course 
and become a stenographer, or go into training as a hospital 

Watching Clara's face from many angles, I had been 
struck by the beauty of her profile, and told her so. She 
blushed, but readily agreed to come back next day to let me do 
a sketch of her. 

Posing her for the sketch, in the right light and at the 
proper angle, gave me an excuse to touch her arms and her 
shoulders. Then I said: "Now forget that I am here." 

"But I can't," she insisted. 

Before I was through I did two sketches of her, so that 
we each could have one. Afterward she was standing near the 
door, thanking me and saying she must go, but lingering. 
When she had said that three times, we both laughed, and 
suddenly I found her in my arms. Then that cursed demon 


of inhibition began to ring its warning bell, and I let her go, 
and was soon back at my work. 

Now I wondered; was she in love with me? Did she 
intend to marry some day? Probably, for most girls had that 
on their minds. Above all, I knew that I must not get too 
deeply involved with her. A few days later I met her in the 
hall and was relieved when she told me she was going back 
to St. Joe. 

"I would like to cross the lake and visit you/' I said. 
I half meant that at the moment, but I never made the trip, 
and never saw her again. 

After a few months, Clay Bennett, a boyhood chum, 
came from Monroe to study dentistry, and we decided to 
look for a rooming house where we could live together for 
the sake of economy. We found one on Clark Street, oppo- 
site Kohl and Middleton's Dime Museum. It was called a 

We hadn't been there long before I began to suspect that 
it was another one of those places. Soon I had ample evidence 
to prove it. Again I began to think of myself as a lost soul 
if my environment should get the best of me. Noises in the 
next room persisted sounds of hilarity, varied by quarrel- 
ing. One forenoon I was impelled to peer through a crack 
in the thin board walls. In that other room I got a good 
view of a lovely looking girl in the near nude. 

An artist has one great advantage over others he can 
always justify his inquisitiveness, and his curiosity about all 
the quirks and perversities of human nature because it's the 
sttmmam bontim of his profession to see life. Without a keen 
curiosity no one can be an artist. And seeing what is unposed 
and unconscious in the actions of individuals or groups 
affords more inspiration than any formal posing or conscious 

Now I set out to show my work to editors of various 
publications, and found a market for drawings with the 
American Field, a sportsman's magazine chiefly comics re- 
lating to hunting or fishing, but occasionally illustrations 
for a story. Then somebody started a Sons of Veterans 
periodical, which bought joke drawings from me at $5 each. 

Having made good on the Nimble Nickel and the Ameri- 
can Field, I began looking around for other worlds to con- 


quer. I had waited nearly a year before visiting any of the 
newspaper offices, for I wanted to be sure of my technical 
facility and of being able to face editors and listen to their 
critical judgement* When I left Monroe, excited over the 
sale to the popular Judge, it seemed it would be easy for me 
to walk right in to the office of the editor of any daily and 
convince him that he needed my services* But my confidence 
had been sadly deflated by the time I stood in front of a news- 
paper building. It took me a long time to screw up courage 
enough to enter. Then the editor would ask me: "How much 
experience have you had?" and I would show him the Judge 
drawing, and some of my pictures in the Nimble Nickel and 
the American Field hoping these would impress him. I no 
longer felt like "the wonder" that folks thought I was back 
home. Thus had my ego been flattened out by the weight 
of the city's vast impersonality. 

All that of course was mental. I had to become a full- 
fledged Chicagoan before I could generate the requisite 
bravado to beard those giants of the sanctums. 

But the thing seemed easier as my free-lance sales con- 
tinued. Having studied the contents of the various dailies 
carefully for months, I picked the Evening Mail as the one 
most likely to be receptive. Bundling up my best pictures, 
I called on Clinton Snowden, editor of that paper. It was 
published by Frank Hatton, who had been First Assistant 
Postmaster General under President Arthur. Midafternoon, 
with the Mail news-room quieting down after the day's rush. 
My knees were shaky, but I made a show of boldness. Snow- 
den was cordial, looked at my work, told me it had "promis- 
ing qualities." 

"We may be able to use some of your stuff," he said. 
"But we have no engraving plant. You'd .have to draw on 
chalk plates. Do you know how to handle them?" 

I had a general idea, having heard them discussed by a 
newspaper artist who was a classroom visitor at the Academy. 

Snowden took me into a back room. Here flat steel plates 
were covered with a layer of hard chalk on which you traced 
your drawing and then plowed your way through the design 
with a sharp steel pencil after which molten lead was 
poured over the plate. When it cooled you had a, cut ready 
to print. As you plowed you had to blow the chalk dust 


awa y an d some artists contended it was dangerous to the 
lungs to breathe in that dust. I didn't like this roundabout 
way of making a picture ready for printing, but nevertheless 
I couldn't pass up the chance when Snowden offered to try 

me out. 

I had brought in some sketches of street scenes, with 
action in them, and these I now transferred to chalk. The 
result was better than I had expected from this experiment 
with a medium new to me, and Snowden liked the pictures; 
published them all during the next week, and gave me an 
order on the cashier for $12. I made more chalk sketches, 
which he took, and presently he began giving me an occa- 
sional assignment, sometimes to illustrate a story about a 
news event or to sketch some celebrity who was being inter- 
viewed. The pay varied, but some weeks it was pretty good, 
and I felt that I had practically a staff job, while still being 
free to do odds and ends for magazines and trade papers. 

On one of the Mail assignments, I fell in with a cheerful 
person named Eugene Wood, who had been a country boy 
in Ohio, but who had by this time made a reputation as a 
reporter on the Snowden paper. After a month's acquaint- 
ance Wood irreverently addressed me as Nosey, referring to 
my beak, when it was brilliant from too much sun. His 
ambition was to be a magazine writer. In later years we met 
often in New York, and became close friends. 

Having finished the dentistry course in record time, Clay 
Bennett returned to Monroe to set up an office, and my next 
move was back to Wabash Avenue and the familiar sound of 
the cable cars the purring of the cable underground and the 
imperious clanging of the gripman's bell as he tried to push 
his way through clogged wagon traffic. The cable cars were 
like short railroad trains first an open grip car, on which 
the seats faced in four directions on front, back and sides; 
and then one or usually two closed trailer cars. In the grip 
car the driver stood in all weathers with no protection against 
the icy winds of winter, and operated long heavy upright 
levers, one of which clutched the moving cable beneath, the 
other controlling the brakes. Only in warm weather did the 
gripmen appear to find life agreeable; in winter they were 
grim looking, red-faced, wind-whipped. 

Safety campaigns hadn't been thought of in those days, 



and the ways of crowds were free and easy. When there was 
some great gathering in good weather, with not enough 
street cars available to accommodate the homeward bound 
throng afterward, men and boys would climb to the roofs 
of the cars and ride there. Seldom did the police interfere, 
and the conductors wouldn't trouble too much to collect 
fares. They would collect all within reach, and forget the 

of Chicago Public Library. 1885. 

On the east side of Wabash Avenue, near Van Buren 
Street, I found a small second-floor room just large enough 
for a bed, bureau, and chair, and by acrobatic twisting of 
my body managed to work on a drawing board leaned 
against the window ledge. (I must remind the reader that I 
haven't always been fat.) Here I worked hard, turning out 
a good many pictures beside the sketches for the Evening 

Sometimes in the evenings I went to the public library, 
then near the City Hall. On my first visit there I found an 
engaging subject for a sketch William Frederick Poole, the 
librarian, a distinguished looking personage/ who wore long 


Dundrearian whiskers and peered over his nose-glasses. I 
could easily draw him from memory now, fifty-three years 
afterward. It was he who established that invaluable refer- 
ence work, Poote's Index of Periodicals, forerunner of the 
present-day Readers Guide. Mr. Poole was always obliging, 
always ready to give all the time needed to help an inquirer 
find an elusive book or magazine. 

I delved into every available picture book, especially 
those containing drawings by Dore, whose fame had be- 
come world-wide. I also liked to look at the annual illus- 
trated catalogue of the Paris Salon, and both current issues 
and bound volumes of the London Graphic, Harper's 
Weekly, the Illustrated News of London, and Punch. I ad- 
mired the powerful drawings of R. Caton Woodville; the 
character sketches of R Barnard, especially his illustrations 
for the household edition of Dickens; the cartoons of John 
Leech, Sir John Tenniel, George Cruikshank, and Harry 
Furniss. People speak of my woodcut style, and doubtless 
this early absorption in the work of the graphic artists of 
the middle nineteenth century had its effect upon my 

Many of the best artists of that period in Chicago made 
their living by painting scenery for the theatre. There was 
Walter Burridge, whose canvases were usually hung on the 
line at the Academy of Design annual shows, but whose 
principal activity was producing background curtains for the 
shows at McVicker's, and for the Dave Henderson produc- 
tions in the Grand Opera House when Eddie Foy was the big 
laugh. One Sunday we went sketching together in the coun- 
try out beyond LaGrange, and Burridg said: "The way to 
see a landscape is to bend down frontward, and look at the 
scene between your legs/' I tried it, and certainly found that 
one's legs helped to frame the view, but there was danger 
of having a rush of art to the head. 

Then there was Jules Guerin, also doing stage scenery, 
whose work became notable in art circles after his Chicago 
days. He was slim and nimble, an accomplished artist in 
profanity as well as in paint, and later developed that re- 
markable talent for seeing and co-ordinating large spaces of 
flat color, as opposed to the fretful brush-tapping school of 


the impressionists. He painted the interior of the Pennsyl- 
vania station in New York City. 

I exhibited a few times at the Academy of Design annual 
shows, but to this day have never had much enthusiasm for 
exhibitions. To go to the trouble of having your picture 
framed, carted, and then if accepted to be just one among 
hundreds, no matter how much your work is acclaimed, with 
always the doubtful chance of a sale is an unsatisfactory 
way of becoming a recognized artist. A solo exhibition is 
more sensible, but that, too, has its penalties. The art agents 
have their own peculiar methods of promoting artists, and 
all things considered, I have thought it best to exhibit niy 
work in periodicals and books. 

Chapter 7 

SNOWDEN'S occasional assignments to me were varied, 
though for the most part I was allowed to suggest the 
pictures I wanted to draw. Moving about the city pretty 
much at will, I knew that labor was stirring, was beginning 
to raise its voice. Sometimes I attended a mass meeting on 
the lake front at the foot of Adams Street, and heard some 
impassioned speaker denounce the capitalists and the daily 
press, accusing the newspapers generally of systematically mis- 
representing the facts about the conditions under which the 
working masses toiled and lived, I was not convinced by 
these fiery charges. Certainly, I felt, the Evening Mail could 
not be as black as it was painted; Snowden struck me as 
an honest fellow, who in conversations had expressed con- 
siderable sympathy for the underdog; and the Mail now and 
then published editorials voicing such sympathy. 

A rugged Swede who had come from Seattle a few years 
before, Snowden was understood to have worked with his 
hands in his youth. He was tireless as director of the news 
staff, which was small, but which gave everything it had to 
help this appreciative chief build up the paper. Once in par- 
ticular Snowden showed a crusading spirit for the benefit 
of the common people akin to that shining exemplar of 
enterprising journalism, Joseph Pulitzer. For many months 
the Mail fought for a three-cent fare on street cars. I remem- 
ber that a date was set for the people to refuse to ride at the 
five-cent rate. The boycott, as I recall it, was to begin in a 
specified area. Snowden and others in our office had it all 
figured out that this action would bring the company to 
terms once it saw an indignant populace walk out in protest. 
But the crusade failed. Only a few persons refused to use the 
street cars, while the many rode and paid five cents as usual. 
When the disappointing reports came in, there was gloom in 
the office of the Evening Mail. 



Early in 1885 three of Jay Gould's railroads, including 
the Wabash, had given notice of a 10 per cent cut in shop- 
men* s wages. These workers were organized in the Knights 
of Labor, which was headed by Terence V, Powderly. In a 
few days some 4,800 shopmen quit their jobs, and the train- 
men on all three lines backed this action with a threat of a 
sympathy strike* Gould gave in; there was no wage cut: and 
the managements agreed that there would be no discrimina- 
tion against any of the strikers. Within six months that agree- 
ment was repudiated, and many of the shopmen were fired 
by the Wabash. 

Immediately the Knights of Labor announced a boycott 
against that road, all men on other lines being ordered to 
move no Wabash freight cars, while union loaders and team- 
sters throughout the country were ordered to co-operate. 
Gould knew that the Knights were strong enough to enforce 
that boycott, and that it would play havoc with the Wabash 
line's operations; so he promptly capitulated. The discharged 
men were reinstated, and the K. of L. ban was called off. 

This victory gave a strong impetus to labor organization 
in all the nation's industrial centers. In those times of bitter 
negotiations, Jay Gould was often quoted as having said: 
"I could hire half of the working class to kill the other half." 
And William H. Vanderbilt, another rail king, had attained 
dark fame by his retort to a Chicago Daily News reporter 
who tried to interview him in his private car: "The public 
be damned!" 

For more than a year there had been "hard times/' Strikes 
followed wage cuts, employers retaliated with lockouts, and 
great numbers of men were out of work. Many of them took 
to the roads as tramps (the term hobo was not yet in use) , 
begging their way from town to town. The newspapers 
spoke editorially of "the tramp menace." Speakers in the out- 
door meetings and in labor union halls advocated the eight- 
hour day as a cure for the growing unemployment. Eight 
Hour Leagues were springing up in various parts of the coun- 
try, and Chicago, as the nation's chief industrial city, became 
the center of this movement. The soap-box speakers told of 
"starvation wages," long hours of toil, and of working con- 
ditions "worse than slavery." 

That summer a strike of street-car men was broken by 


police clubs; the police heads declared that "we will continue 
to put down disorder wherever it shows itself/' ^Workers' 
meetings were often broken up by the forces of "law and 


"Unprincipled foreigners" and "Anarchists" were blamed 
by the daily press for the eight-hour-day demand. The edi- 
tors saw "dirty aliens undermining American institutions/' 
Readers began to hear of the "Black International," as the 
papers * called the International Working People's Associa- 
tion, which had been organized in London several years 
before, and which was now active in New York, with Johann 
Most as its leader. Bloody revolution was near at hand, 
unless something was done to stop it, according to the omi- 
nous editorials in the dailies, 

Now and then, when I had turned in a layout of pictures 
to Snowden, I would sit down in a corner of the Evening 
Mail local room to talk with the reporters. Usually the con- 
versation was frivolous, but sometimes it took on a serious 
cast Louis Seibold was then a star boy reporter on our 
paper. An Irishman, one of the older men, whose name I've 
forgotten, but who read a good deal, occasionally made com- 
ment which gave me something to think about. 

"There's a limit to how far the police can go in the name 
of law and order/' he said once, "They'll go too far with 
the clubbing one of these days, and the workers will strike 
back. Even a worm will turn. Captain Schaack has a lot of 
gall to talk about 'trouble-makers/ You can bet your life if 
there was no trouble Schaack would make some. He's a glory 
hunter and a bastard of the first order!" 

Albert Parsons had become well known in the city news- 
paper offices as the editor of the weekly Alarm, organ of the 
International Working People's Association, and as a militant 
speaker at mass meetings. A good-looking man with dark 
hair smoothed back tight on his forehead, a dark moustache, 
earnest and passionate in his attacks upon the "exploiters of 
labor/' there was no mistaking his sincerity. Even Ed Mona- 
han, cynical young reporter who scoffed at all reformers and 
agitators, conceded that. 

What I knew then about the working masses and their 
problems, at the age of twenty, was fragmentary, gleaned 
from hearing occasional speeches and from desultory reading. 


No clear realization of what labor was up against had yet 
sunk into my consciousness, nor did it for many years after- 
ward. I lacked a foundation for such understanding; nothing 
I had learned in school gave me anything on which to build. 
In a vague way I sensed that the social system was not perfect, 
but all that seemed remote from my life. The questions raised 
by the soap-boxers were disturbing at the moment, but there 
was little I could do t so far as I could see, to better the 
situation. I would give a hungry man on the street the price 
of a meal and a bed, but that would help him only for the 
time being. And if I drew pictures of hungry people, as such, 
the Evening Mail certainly wouldn't publish them. It might 
use a news report of some man dying in the street from star- 
vation, but it wouldn't go out of its way to air the causes 
which led to deaths of that kind. Such happenings were de- 
pressing to think about, anyhow. Instinct led me to hope 
that the Knights of Labor would win the fight for the eight- 
hour day; that would put many jobless men back to work. 

My thoughts turned to more pleasant things as spring 
came in 1886, and I sketched people at their ease on Sunday 
in the parks, pioneer residents of Chicago, quaint street scenes, 
important guests in the larger hotels, sandlot baseball games, 
and other innocuous if colorful phases of the city's life. 

And I had been home in March for my sister's marriage 
to Clyde Copeland, "by Elder Daniel R. Howe of the Chris- 
tian Church, at the residence of the bride's parents." My 
wedding gift was a water color drawing of the bride and 
groom, surrounded by ornate decorations, with cupids ram- 
pant over the heads of wedding guests, and myself in the 
foreground, dismissing the affair with a wave of the hand 
and saying: ''No wedding bells for me.'* 

Lingering in Monroe for a few days, I enjoyed myself. 
My friend the postmaster was displaying clippings of some of 
my recent pictures from the Mail on the government's wall, 
and so everybody in town was kept posted about my produc- 
tions. But old Bill Sutherland, retired plasterer, was sur- 
prised to hear that I'd been away, "I don't get downtown 
much nowadays, on account of my sciaticy/' Then he told 
me 'I've tried Swift's Specific, St. Jacob's Oil, Packard's Pain 


Killer, and Peruna, but it still ketches me right here/* gestur- 
ing around to his back* 

From my store of collected material I have come across a 
yellowed copy of the Monroe Sentinel which reported my sis- 
ter's wedding. Scores of compact paragraphs of news of the 
outside world were in that issue of Charlie Booth's weekly: 

"Again is the assertion made in New York dispatches 
that ex-President Arthur is in very bad health, and not likely 
to recover. ... A strike of street-car employees is in prog- 
ress at Columbus, Ohio, and plans for a revolt at Pittsburgh 
have been made. * . . Duke Calabeitti, who was exiled from 
Italy for fighting with Garibaldi, died Wednesday in Hobo- 
ken, N. J., where he was a hotel manager* . . . The eight- 
hour ordinance passed by the Milwaukee common council, 
affecting all persons paid by the day, has been signed by 
Mayor Wallber, * . . An affliction resembling epizoot is so 
prevalent at Canton, Ohio, as to confine 1,000 school chil- 
dren to their beds or homes. 

1 'Distress prevailing among the unemployed of Great 
Britain is not deemed by Mr. Gladstone a sufficient reason for 
asking the Queen to appoint a day for national humiliation 
and prayer. ... A dispatch from Scituate, Mass, reports 
the death of Miss Abigail Bates, one of two heroines who in 
the war of 1812 drove away the British by playing a fife 
and drum in the bushes. . . . H. M. Hoxie, vice-president 
of the Missouri Pacific, in a letter to T. V. Powderly, de- 
clined to hold a conference with the Knights of Labor, and 
argues that the strike is devoid of a redressable grievance. 
. . . Both houses of Congress have passed the pension bill 
which increases the pensions of soldiers' widows and depend- 
ent relatives from $8 to $12 per month. It will require about 
seven million dollars to meet the provisions of the bill/' 

Back in Chicago after that vacation, I stuck close to the 
drawing board. I was doing pretty well on the Mail, but I 
wanted to do better, to put money in the bank and have a 
substantial cash reserve. Many of the newspaper men I knew 
spent their spare time in gambling and drinking. I was not 
inclined in that direction. This was not at all a moral atti- 
tude. I simply found no fun in it. I saved my money by 
holding to the small room on Wabash Avenue, for which I 


paid $3 a week. Few friends came there, and I had no wish 
to have large and impressive quarters as an accompaniment 
to success. 

Easter came on April 25, and I watched the parade that 
morning in the vicinity of one of the South Side churches 
where the wealthy attended. All was right with the world, if 
one could judge from the beaming faces of the well-dressed 
churchgoers as they moved along the walks homeward or 
got into their carriages. Swelling organ music poured through 
the open church doors as the congregation made its exit, and 
a sleek clergyman shook hands with many of his flock, utter- 
ing polite, stereotyped phrases. 

But in the downtown section some 3,500 workers, bear- 
ing flags and union banners, and headed by a band, marched 
through the streets to the lake front, to join in a demonstra- 
tion in behalf of the eight-hour work day, in which 20,000 
persons or more took part. Speeches were made by various 
leaders of the movement, including four whose names were 
soon to become symbols in a mighty social conflict Parsons, 
Schwab, Spies, and Fielden. 

The speakers dwelt at length upon the wrongs that labor 
had suffered at the hands of the railroads, manufacturers, and 
other employers; they told how animosities had been fos- 
tered by agents of the bosses between one nationality and an- 
other, such as the Germans and the Irish, to keep them from 
organizing ; they excoriated the police for brutal attacks upon 
the toilers who produced the wealth for capitalists to enjoy. 

All this reminded the newspapers and the police heads 
acutely that May 1 was near, and that organized labor had 
planned strikes in major industries on that day, to enforce 
its demand for the eight-hour day. Chicago employers urged 
Mayor Carter H. Harrison to have state troops in readiness, 
and he said no, as he had in the past. The police were com- 
petent to meet any emergency, he averred. Elected largely 
by the workers, Harrison was in his fourth term, and he 
had kept his head, despite all the alarmist talk by merchants 
and financiers that revolution was at the city's gates. 

So bitter and far-reaching had been the attack upon the 
eight-hour-day movement that the local executive board of 
the Knights of Labor, that week, rescinded its approval of 
the plan for the May Day strikes. For this the board was 


assailed as cowardly by many rank-and-file members. The 
Alarm and another militant labor paper, Die Arbeiter Zei~ 
tang, called on the workers to defend themselves with force 
if need be against the assaults of the police and the Pinker- 
tons who served the capitalists. 

Word was given out at police headquarters on Friday 
night, April 30, that the whole force would be on reserve 
all next day, and that arrangements had been made to muster 
hundreds of special policemen "in the event of any serious 

"Captain Schaack will be sadly disappointed," said my 
Irish co-worker on May Day morning, "if his men can't 
find an excuse to smash a lot of skulls today." 

But there was no outbreak, no disorder of any kind. 
More than 60,000 workers paraded or took part in gather- 
ings that day, and no occasion arose for arrests. The "cele- 
bration" of that May Day, however, lacked any aspect of 
joyousness. Defiance was its keynote, the paraders and the 
police eyeing each other with sullenness. 

Whatever reassurance there was for the general public in 
Saturday's peacefulness, new trouble blazed forth on Mon- 
day at the McCormick harvester works out on Blue Island 
Avenue, known to old-timers as the Black Road. For many 
weeks this had been a sore spot for the workers. Fourteen 
hundred striking employees there had been locked out in Feb- 
ruary, the company bringing in scabs and 300 Pinkerton 
thugs to guard them. Cyrus H. McCormick told the press 
that "the right to hire any man, white or black, union or non- 
union, Protestant or Catholic, is something I will not sur- 

Protest meetings arranged by Albert Parsons and his 
associates near the gates of the McCormick works had repeat- 
edly been broken up by the police with clubs. On that Mon- 
day, May 3, August Spies, editor of the Arbeit er-Zeitung, 
was one of those who addressed such a meeting. He called 
upon the strikers to stand solidly together. Soon afterward 
there was a clash between the locked-out men and a group of 
scabs. Police to the number of 150 came, fired into the 
throng, killing one striker and wounding at least five others. 

Spies went back to the Arbeiter-Zeitang office, and wrote 
an account of all this for his paper. He had seen the strikers 


fall before the police bullets, and that afternoon he read in 
the Daily News that six men had been killed in that attack. 
This report was not accurate, but Spies had ample reason to 
believe that it was. Finishing his news story, he talked with 
others about the situation, and then wrote copy for a leaflet 
announcing a mass meeting of protest to be held in Hay- 
market Square on the West Side the next night. This, was 
headed: "Workingmen! To Arms!*' Without consulting 
Spies, the compositor who set the type inserted ahead of that 
slogan and as a part of it the word "Revenge!" Thousands 
of copies of this leaflet were distributed overnight wherever 
workers gathered* 

I was reading about the industrial turmoil, or hearing 
about it from members of the Mail staff, but I was not get- 
ting assignments to illustrate any news stories dealing with it. 
My social awareness remained undeveloped. I had no per- 
spective on the human conflict, and had not found out how 
to connect up an effect with its underlying causes. 

When I came from the country I had a strong belief 
that the newspapers of the big cities were oracles, beacon 
lights. I still clung to that belief, though a bit shakily. Of 
course I knew their policies were inconsistent, but perhaps 
that couldn't be helped it was best not to expect it. In one 
election a Chicago daily would thunderingly assail some can- 
didate, and a year later would be lauding him, with no ex- 
planation of its reversal. And the same newspaper would 
attack the railroads for victimizing both their employees and 
patrons, but would assail the eight-hour day movement and 
organized labor's program. The press blew hot and cold at 
will. I was often bewildered by that. 

Chapter 8 

I NEED not dwell at length upon what happened in Hay- 
market Square on the night of May 4, 1886. The story 
has been told many times the mass-meeting of some 
1,500 persons in protest against the wanton shooting of 
workers by the police; Mayor Carter H. Harrison in attend- 
ance; Albert Parsons speaking, then leaving with his wife 
for a beer garden two blocks away; Samuel Fielden mounting 
the wagon used as a rostrum: rain beginning to fall, and the 
crowd dwindling; the Mayor departing, and visiting the 
nearby Desplaines Street police station to report to Captain 
John Bonfield that there had been no disorder at the meet- 
ing; Bonfield disregarding the Mayor's words, and in a few 
minutes leading 125 reserve policemen to the scene, and 
ordering the remaining audience of some 200 persons to 
disperse; then from above or behind the wagon a whizzing 
spark; a tremendous explosion; many policemen falling; 
their comrades firing into the panic-stricken crowd, killing 
and wounding. Seven of the police died; how many civilians 
were killed by police bullets that night was never definitely 
known, and nothing was ever done about it. 

Then a hue and cry widespread police raids; arrests of 
hundreds of men and women known as or suspected to be 
Anarchists, Socialists, or Communists; announcements of the 
discovery of various dynamite "plots" and of the finding 
of bombs and infernal machines; indictment of Albert Par- 
sons and others as conspirators responsible for the Haymarket 
explosion and deaths. 

Newspaper editors and public men generally cried for a 
quick trial of the defendants, with speedy executions to fol- 
low, and there was every reason to believe from the pub- 
lished reports that the accused were guilty. Public opinion 
was formed almost solely by the daily press, and in its col- 
umns "evidence" was steadily piled up against these labor 



agitators. Parsons had disappeared on the night of the bomb- 
ing police all over the country were watching for him; 
was not his flight confession of guilt? Rudolph Schnaubelt 
also was gone; he had been arrested twice and questioned 
briefly, but had been released and Police Captain Schaack 
was incensed at the * 'stupidity*' of the detectives who had let 
him go; Schnaubelt specifically was suspected of the actual 
bomb-throwing. And the daily newspapers reproduced a 
leaflet announcing the Haymarket meeting, which bore a 
black- faced line urging workers to come armed. 

Like the great mass of Chicagoans, I was swayed by these 
detailed reports of the black-heartedness of the defendants. 
Outstanding business and professional men, and prominent 
members of the clergy, denounced the accused, who were now 
all lumped together as "Anarchists," and condemned the 
killing of the seven policemen as being "the most wanton 
outrage in American history/' In the bloody and gruesome 
descriptions of the tragedy of May 4, the city's people for- 
got the needless killing and wounding of workers by the 
police on May 3. I, too, saw "evidence* ' against Parsons in 
his running away. He had spoken at the mass-meeting, and 
the explosion had come only a few minutes after he left 
and then he had vanished. Innocent men do not run away 
when a crime has been committed (so my youthful mind 
reasoned then) ; they stay and face the music. 

But when on the opening day of the trial, June 21, 
Albert Parsons walked into court and declared that he wanted 
to be tried with his comrades, my sympathies began to lean 
in the other direction. He had been in seclusion in Waukesha, 
Wisconsin, working as a carpenter and living in the home of 
Daniel Hoan, father of the present Mayor of Milwaukee. If 
Parsons were guilty, I reasoned now, he would not have 
come back; he needn't have come; the police had been unable 
to find any trace of him. 

Shortly after the jury had been selected, Clinton Snow- 
den assigned me to make some pictures of scenes in the court- 
room for the Evening MaiL The place was crowded, but I 
managed to get a seat with the reporters at a table near the 
defense attorneys. The prosecution was putting in its case, 
and there were continual objections by the defense to the line 
of questioning by Julius S. Grinnell, the State's Attorney. 


Usually these objections were overruled, in a rasping voice, 
by Judge Joseph E. Gary. When Grinnell uttered some opin- 
ion which the defense considered prejudicial, Gary would 
say: "The jury will disregard the State's Attorney's remark" 
but Grinnell kept on with bold assurance that he was 
master of the situation. 

Many well-dressed men and women, obviously from the 
city's better families, were spectators, craning their necks to 

JUDGE JOSEPH E. GARY, who presided at the trial 
of the Haymarket case defendants. 

get a view of the eight defendants. But I was interested quite 
as much in the lawyers battling on both sides of the case. 
It was common knowledge that it had been difficult to find 
reputable and competent attorneys in Chicago willing to de- 
fend the accused; their cause was too unpopular; notice had 
been plainly served that only a pariah and an enemy of 
society would try to save those men from the gallows. In 
the face of this warning, three courageous members of the 
bar, who hitherto had handled only civil cases, had agreed to 
undertake the Anarchists* defense. William P* Black was chief 


of these; a captain in the Union Army during the Civil War, 
he was known as a fighter; tall, dark, and handsome, with a 
pronounced jaw that shook a short beard, he was often the 
center of all eyes in court. Assisting Black were William A. 
Foster, said to be capable as a finder of evidence, and Sigis- 
mund Zeisler, an earnest and studious young man with a 
blond Vandyke beard, red lips, and wavy hair. 

On the other side of this desperate contest was Grinnell, 
the State's Attorney, who was understood to aspire to the 
Governor's chair; and several assistants, whose names got 
into print much less often than GrinnelFs. He had a fresh, 
healthy face and a big well-curled moustache. 

At that stage of the fight the Evening Mail was particu- 
larly interested in the make-up of the jury, for it had been 
selected only after the examination of almost a thousand 
talesmen, during a period of four weeks. That jury was 
representative of the middle class. 

Frank S. Osborne, the jury foreman, was a salesman for 
Marshall Field and Company; and the other eleven "good 
men and true" answered to these descriptions: former rail- 
road construction contractor, clothing salesman, ex-broker 
from Boston, school principal, shipping clerk, traveling paint 
salesman, book-keeper, stenographer for the Chicago and 
Northwestern Railway, voucher clerk for the same railroad, 
hardware merchant, seed salesman. 

Watching the accused men in court, I wondered whether 
it was indeed possible that any of them had anything to do 
with the throwing of that bomb, which wounded countless 
working people as well as killing the seven policemen. There 
were reports, repeatedly published, that members of the An- 
archist group were mortally injured on the night of May 4, 
but that they were "spirited away*' by friends. 

The defendants were neatly dressed, each with a flower 
in his buttonhole. They sat in their chairs with dignity, and 
with the apparent self-confidence of men who expected to 
be exonerated. 

There was a breathless tension to the court proceedings, 
the air electric. Grinnell talked much about "protecting so- 
ciety and government against enemies bent on their destruc- 
tion/' Captain Black was on his feet often with objections. 

Back at the Evening Mail office, I re-drew my sketches 


on chalk plates* By this time I had acquired a ready hand 
for working with this process, though I never liked it. These 
pictures of the trial attracted considerable attention, both 
among the Mail staff and outside. Word came to me a little 
later that Melville E. Stone, editor of the Daily News, had 
commented favorably upon that day's work of mine. And 
Snowden praised my courtroom pictures. 

Having attended a few sessions of the trial, and in a 
sense having been for several days a part of that dramatic 
spectacle, I followed the newspaper reports of the case with 
deep interest. "Evidence" steadily mounted against them* Of 
the real quality of that "evidence" I knew nothing then. 

After the prosecution had rested its case, the defense 
attorneys moved that the jury be instructed to return a ver- 
dict of not guilty for Neebe, on the ground that the State 
had failed to connect him in any way with either the bomb- 
throwing or the alleged conspiracy. But Judge Gary over- 
ruled the motion. 

When the defense was putting in its evidence, I was in 
court again, and now the accused men were having their 
inning. The structure which the State had built up seemed 
to be breaking down. I took note of Parsons's wife in the 
audience, with her striking Indian-hued face; of Nina Van 
Zandt, sweetheart of Spies; and of the relatives of other 
defendants. They all seemed buoyed up by new hope. 

Reading in next morning's papers about the sessions I 
had attended, however, the case appeared in a much different 
light than it had in the courtroom. Did the reporters have 
sharper ears and keener eyes than I? Perhaps so; they were 
trained in this kind of work while I was new at it. Yet why 
was one side of the case over-emphasized, and the other sub- 
ordinated? I know now, but I didn't know then. 

And a few days later, the State had the last word 
blasting the defendants in its closing arguments, repairing 
any damage the defense had done to the prosecution's case. 
Grinnell spoke all one day and part of the next. Out over 
night, the jury brought in a verdict finding all the defend- 
ants guilty of murder "as charged in the indictment/' That 
verdict specified a penalty of death for Spies, Schwab, Fielden, 
Parsons, Fischer, Engel, and Lingg; and fifteen years' im- 
prisonment for Neebe, 


I listened to the opinion among the men on the Mail staff 
as to the guilt or innocence of the Anarchists. Argument over 
that question went on heatedly for days in the news room* 
The champions of the defendants, who were in the minority, 
cited various alleged flaws in the State's case* I remember 
there was a good deal of skepticism over the testimony of a 
Tribune reporter, a prosecution witness, who told what was 
said by speakers at the Haymarket meeting, and swore that 
he took notes with a pencil down inside of his overcoat 
pocket! But even if the prosecution was weak on that point, 
the conservatives declared, there was plenty of other evi- 
dence of guilt and they cited it, point by point. 'Til trust 
that jury/' Fred Martin insisted. "All of them are guilty as 

Newspaper editorials and prominent citizens in inter- 
views lauded the jury for "intelligent service to the State" 
and the Tribune printed a letter from an ardent reader urging 
the raising of a $100,000 fund to be presented to the jurors 
as a fitting reward for their fearless integrity, etcetra. 

Immediately after the verdict the defense gave notice that 
it would appeal to the higher courts, and with the convicted 
men locked in their cells in the county jail, the press began 
devoting its front pages to other affairs. 

I was to see more of the class struggle in the near future 
without knowing what it meant. Indeed, at that time, when 
I was 20 years old, I knew hardly anything except that I 
had a knack for drawing pictures and was pretty good at 
reciting selections from books of poetry* 

Chapter 9 

NOW I got word that Melville E* Stone wanted to see 
me. Waiting a few days so as not to seem too anxious, 
I went over to the Daily News office, taking along 
samples of the best of my drawings. Stone looked them over 
with a critical eye. 

'Tve been watching your work/' he said, "and I was 
impressed particularly by your sketches of the Anarchists' 
trial. I think we could make a place for you here. The Daily 
News is expanding, and we need pictures good pictures* 
We've just put in a zinc etching plant, and we've stopped 
using chalk plates. . * . How would you like to come and 
work for us in the art department?" 

I favored the idea. 

"How much money do you want?" 

That was a trying moment. I was still afraid of editors, 
and for many years thereafter my heart sank whenever I 
approached any of them. I had read a book, Getting on in the 
World, by William Mathews. Whether it fortified me at this 
juncture, I don't know, but I kept saying to myself: "Look 
your listener right in the eye and don't sell your talent too 
cheap/* Stone's question was a tactical error. I had been 
getting only about $12 a week from the Evening Mail for 
my free-lance contributions; and if he had offered me $15 
or $20 a week I would have accepted without haggling, for 
the chance to work on such an enterprising paper as the 
Daily News. 

But boldly I said: "I think I am worth $35 a week/' 

"Well, you are worth that if you can do the work," 
Stone answered. 

Instantly I thought: "My God, what have I done? I've 
got to make good." 

So I was given a key to the art department and a salary 
that was large for a country boy,* in those days before artists 



and pictures were thought to be much of an asset to news- 
papers. J. C. Selanders had been doing most of the work in 
that department, but he was soon to leave for a tour of 

Stone was editor and part owner of the News, with Vic- 
tor R Lawson as partner. Tall and slim, and son of a small- 
town clergyman, Stone was an energetic and ambitious per- 
son, obviously proud of the contacts with notables that he 
made through his position. 

Most of my assignments came from Charles H. Dennis, 
the managing editor, and from Butch White, city editor; but 
occasionally they were given directly by Stone, in his nasal 
voice. Once I said to him, after proposing a certain kind 
of picture: "I think the public likes such pictures/* "Never 
mind what the public likes/' Stone answered. 'Til take care 
of that/' 

Like the Evening Mail, the Daily News was in an old 
dingy building. In fact all the Chicago papers were then in 
such rookeries. My working environment was raw, but it 
didn't matter. The adventure of being in a bustling metropo- 
lis constantly took on new color. The city was smoky and 
blatant, sprawled out and smelly with odors both savory 
and repellent: blindfold, I could have told with a high per- 
centage of accuracy what part of town I was in* There were 
the spice mills and coffee roasting plants around the Hoyt 
company's quarters near the Rush Street bridge; the fish, 
poultry, fruit, and vegetable markets along South Water 
Street; the poisonous river, which with its two branches 
divided the city into three segments; and more potent than 
all else, when the wind was from the Southwest, the unmis- 
takable breath of the stockyards. Another odor which, how- 
ever, might be found anywhere in Chicago was sewer gas. 

Newspaper standards in that time were low, though I 
didn't know it, having no yardstick for comparison. The 
dailies were emotional in their news columns as well as in 
editorials, profuse with derogatory epithets even on the front 
pages in political campaigns. They fawned upon visiting 
celebrities, often grew maudlin in eulogies of them. Some of 
the papers systematically stole telegraph news from the 
others; one way of achieving such theft was the bribery of 
a telegraph operator in one office to provide an unofficial 


client with carbon copies of all material coming over the 
wires. A good many outlandish fake news stories found their 
way into print, and were all too often believed by a gullible 
public* Many reporters were careless with their use of facts. 
The less prosperous dailies, weak in their supply of tele- 
graphic intelligence and with small local staffs, brought in- 
vention into play; anything to keep up with, or beat, their 

FASHION IN 1886, from one of my sketch-books. 

It was good sport to sit around with the reporters after 
hours, in the local room or over in police headquarters, and 
hear the news-hounds boast about their achievements how 
one landed a big story by hiding under a sofa in an alder- 
man's office; how another impersonated a federal officer and 
thus got an interview with a fugitive not yet caught by the 
authorities; how a third crouched in water in a rainbarrel 
while he eavesdropped on a well-known couple who a little 


later were airing dirty linen in the divorce court. There were 
gory tales, too, of suspects in crime cases being beaten almost 
to death in the police stations to force them to talk; these 
were horrifying. 

Assignments on the Daily News gave me entree every- 
where that I wanted to go, and my life moved along 
smoothly. From men and women whose names were known 
internationally for their achievements, I learned much. True, 

Chicago Daily News 

BOOTH AND BARRETT. Two great actors view the 
Lincoln statue by St. Gaudens. 

the information I was picking up was in unrelated pieces; 
and I had to become much older before I could put these 
jigsaw pieces together and make a clear composite of them. 
Frances Willard, long president of the Woman's Christian 
Temperance Union, made a deep impression on me when I 
sketched her. She was the first woman publicist of any conse- 
quence that I ever saw. It was a rare thing in those days for 
a woman to do battle on social questions in the public arena. 
Except for those who braved ostracism by going on the 


stage, most of the gentler sex either remained in the home, 
concerned themselves with non-controversial activities like 
music, became missionaries or collected money for the 
heathen, taught school, or went into nunneries. Miss Willard, 
a finely moulded individual, was a torch of eloquence, 

I listened spellbound as she addressed a convention of 
several thousand people in the old Exposition building* She 
was attacking the exploitation of the masses by the rich, and 
her statements seemed unanswerable* Some years later I got 
hold of a pamphlet in which she advocated such radical steps 
as nationalization of transportation and communication; 
public ownership of newspapers, with every editorial bearing 
the signature of its author; compulsory arbitration in indus- 
trial disputes; and minimum wages for workers. This was 
one of the first Socialistic appeals that I ever read, although 
I am sure there was no mention of Socialism in Miss Willard' s 
utterances. I could see nothing fanatical about this magnetic 
woman or her ideas. But she was expected to stick to the 
subject of temperance and let economics alone. 

President Grover Cleveland and his wife came to town, 
and I made sketches of them, as they were driven along 
Michigan Avenue in a four-horse carriage. Cleveland was so 
bulky that he looked slightly comic, especially because of his 
habit of wearing his silk hat tilted a bit forward. 

One day in Lincoln Park, by sheer chance, I came upon 
Edwin Booth and Lawrence Barrett, his fellow actor, seated 
in a carriage viewing the St. Gaudens statue of Abraham 
Lincoln, which was being made ready for dedication. I 
sketched that scene and it was reproduced in the Daily News. 
Booth had often been hooted when he appeared on the stage 
after his brother Wilkes had killed Lincoln, but he neverthe- 
less had continued his career, and finally regained public 

One rarely hears of Eugene Field nowadays, save when 
some old-timer harks back in reminiscence to him and his 
work. But in the Eighties he was an institution in Chicago; 
and like all who are in the limelight he had detractors as well 
as panegyrists. Day after day the local scene was enlivened 
by his column in the Daily News, which bore the title, 
''Sharps and Flats/' 


His writings therein, like those in most columns of the 
kind in newspapers, were words traced in sand, forgotten 
soon afterward. Most of his poems have faded out, except 
"Winken, Blynken, and Nod/' "Little Boy Blue" and "See- 
ing Things at Night/' Another favorite with me was "That 
Was Long Ago/' in which a father relates youthful memories 
to his child* He could recite his own poems better than any 
of the professional elocutionists. I knew many of them by 

"I don't write poetry/* he said to me. "Call it just verse/' 
Yet some of it was poetry, with depth of feeling and a lilt 
of beauty that compels remembrance. 

I can look back fifty years and see him clearly in his 
cubby-hole, exchanging quips with a side-whiskered crony 
Dr. Frank Reilly of the editorial staff, later Chicago's health 
commissioner. Field has an architect's drawing board on his 
knees. That is the desk on which he does his writing; and 
his penmanship is as clear and fine as copper-plate print* The 
walls are plastered with newspaper clippings, most of them 
about himself and his friends. He was sixteen years older than 
I, but having youngsters like myself around seemed to be his 
idea of right living. 

Field had inherited $8,000 from his father at the age of 
twenty-one, and set out immediately to see how fast he 
could get rid of it. With a brother of the girl he was to 
marry, he went abroad, "spending six months and my patri- 
mony" in France, Italy, Ireland, and England. 

"I just threw the money around," he said, in recalling 
that splurge. "I paid it out for experience and experience 
was lying around loose everywhere I traveled. When I got 
back life was a good deal simpler than when I thought myself 
rich. Practically broke, I went into newspaper work in St. 

After I had come to know him he made a second visit to 
England, and declared on his return that he didn't care much 
for the English. Yet he had brought home a lot of souvenir 
photographs of British men of letters whom he liked 
among them Andrew Lang and an axe presented to him by 
Prime Minister Gladstone, who had chopped down number- 
less trees with it for exercise. 

Field asked Lang to translate a Latin epigram which had 


accompanied the axe, and Lang promptly obliged with the 
translation, adding: "If your countrymen admire Mr. Glad- 
stone, I wish they had owned him; but the just anger of 
God sent him to punish our imperial hypocrisy and humbug. 
Every nation has the Gladstone it deserves/' 

I spent many pleasant hours with Field at his home in 
suburban Buena Park. Here, in a spacious "den/' he did a 
great deal of his work, flanked by books and piles of news- 
papers, and surrounded by thousands of curios, beautiful or 
grotesque, which revealed a collector's passion. Especially was 
he fond of canes from all countries. He sat in an arm-chair 
which had belonged to Jefferson Davis, and on his table was 
an inkstand that Napoleon had used and scissors formerly 
Charles A. Dana's. And on shelves and in glass-fronted cabi- 
nets were hundreds of dolls, old china, odd-shaped bottles, 
mechanical toys, small images, and strange pewter dishes. 

"Some of the best of these things I got for nothing/' he 
explained. "When a fellow becomes known as a collector, 
and can show just the right shade of enthusiasm for some 
object that another person has, he finds that a lot of people 
are glad to contribute to his collection." 

When Field knew you well enough he would show you 
his most unusual treasure an album of pornographic pic- 
tures, curious examples of erotica from many lands, in which 
both men and women and dumb animals were portrayed in 
amorous ecstasies. I am sure that Anthony Comstock would 
have burned with envy had he known of that garner of for- 
bidden photographs in Buena Park. 

Field had canaries in his den, but their cage-doors were 
left open. They flew about the room, alighting on his shoul- 
ders or anywhere they pleased, while he wrote or read. 

He thought of himself as a hard man to get along with, 
and once told me of a dream he had had the night before. 
"I was in Heaven, walking along the golden streets/' he 
said, "and somebody introduced me to an old codger he 
called Job. 'What/ said I, 'are you the man who had so 
much trouble, as told in the Bible?' * . . Tm the man/ said 
Job. . . . 'Well, Job/ I said, "y u don't know what trouble 
is. Wait until you meet the woman who had to live with 
me Mrs* Eugene Field/ " 

Field was an inveterate practical joker, and no one in 


the Daily News office was immune from his humorous frame- 
ups. He perpetrated some jokes on the editor which de- 
lighted the staff. Once when he felt the need of a salary in- 
crease, he rounded up several ragged children from the back 
streets, gave dimes to them, cautioned them not to talk, and 
marched them up the stairs and into Stone's presence. 

'Is it right/' he demanded, "that my children go ragged 
in the streets because the Daily News won't pay me a decent 

Stone pretended to weep over the columnist's sad plight, 
and instructed the cashier to step up his pay envelope. 

Field would cheerfully invite any uninitiated caller to 
sit in a chair with a camouflage cushion of a few newspapers. 
It originally had had a cane seat, but this had long since 
worn out, and the caller's stern would sink into the aperture 
along with his dignity. Eugene always apologized profusely 
for not having had the chair fixed, while the victim struggled 
to extricate himself. 

A man of reading and discernment, Field was at the same 
time Wild-Western and raw, an odd combination. He chewed 
tobacco with avidity and swore convincingly, often inventing 
unique profane phrases which aroused admiration among his 
less imaginative co-workers. 

Like Mark Twain, Field was an ardent dissenter against 
the prevailing social order in private conversation, although 
not much of that dissent was found in his writings nor in 
Twain's. Both of those men were born too soon, or perhaps 
were just naturally cautious of being combative in public. 
They were cast by Fate into a period which we know today 
as the era of rugged individualism a nation marching be- 
hind a banner bearing the legend: "Self conquers all!" Mean- 
ing, of course, that it's up to you alone a doctrine which 
practically everybody across the land took for granted, and 
one which hangs on in spite of its falsity. 

Yet Field and Twain occasionally exhibited signs of 
doubt and wrote satirical comment on American life. Field 
poked fun at the shallow culture of the Chicago pork packers, 
and Mark Twain indulged in brief outbursts of anarchistic 
protest. None of their onsets, however, was incisive enough 
to make the big financiers question their loyalty to the exist- 
ing economic and social system. 


Finley Peter Dunne was on the Daily News staff then, 
writing editorials and paragraphs about current affairs. He 
had not yet conceived the Mr, Dooley series, those pithy 
comments on the uneven course of the human race still being 
ten years in the future, Dunne's small office was on the second 
floor, one of several formed by eight-foot partitions, I re- 
member dropping in one day to show him a picture I had 
just finished. He laid down a book he had been reading 
the story of a trip up the Hudson and to New York summer 
resorts, by Charles Dudley Warner, Looking at me through 

Dooley articles brought him fame. 

spectacles set against a bulbous nose, Dunne said; 'Tve been 
wasting my time reading this. Some critics say Warner is a 
genius. Genius hell!" 

Irish wit often cropped out in his daily talk even then, 
and so the Dooley philosophy had a familiar ring when it 
was being featured afterward when Dunne was on the Eve- 
ning Journal. I followed the observations of "the sage of 
Archey Road" with delight, and Mr. Dooley frequently 
scored a bull's eye with his verbal shafts. He managed to get 
in a lot of side-swipes at the financiers, the politicians, the 
war-makers, and other evil figures and institutions in Ameri- 
can life, in the guise of humor* In his Dooley articles he 
called attention to stupidity on our side of the fence in the 
conduct of the Spanish- American War; he voiced skepticism 
that the Standard Oil Company would ever have to pay the 



famous $29,000,000 fine, and it never did; and he dealt 
with the national tendency to begin crusades against social 
wrongs and never finish them* He knew the value of ridicule 
as a weapon. 

Some of the sayings of Mr. Dooley deserve recalling now: 

"High finance ain't burglary, an* it ain't obtaining money 

be false pretinses, an J it ain't manslaughter. It's what ye 

might call a judicious seliction fr'm th' best features iv thim 


Chicago Daily News 

BEFORE THE BICYCLE. Young women sped 
along on tricycles in 1887. 

*T11 niver go down again to see sojers off to th' war* 
But yell see me at the depot with a brass band whin th* men 
that causes wars starts f r th' scene iv carnage/' 

"Don't ask f r rights. Take thim. An* don't let anny wan 
give thim to ye. A right that is handed to ye f r nothin* has 
somethin' the matter with it. It's more than likely it's only a 
wrong turned inside out/* 

And when his friend Hennessey asked: "What's all this 
that's in the papers about the open shop?" Mr. Dooley 


". . . Really, Fm surprised at yer ignorance, Hinnissey. 
What is th' open shop? Sure, 'tis where they kape the doors 
open to accommodate th' constant stream av min comin' in t' 
take jobs cheaper than th' min that has th' jobs. . . ." 

"But," said Hennessy, "these open-shop min ye minshun 
say they are fur the unions if properly conducted/' 

"Sure," said Mr. Dooley, "if properly conducted. An' 
there we are. An' how would they have thitn conducted? 
No strikes, no rules, no conthracts, no scales, hardly any 
wages, and damn few members." 

Robert B. Peattie and his wife Elia also were energetic 
members of the News staff in my time. With his white face 
and nose glasses, Peattie moved about the office like an ab- 
sorbed professor. Elia had school-girl cheeks. In summer she 
edited the news of the Wisconsin resorts. Whenever she 
entered the art department all four artists (the staff was 
growing) stopped their work to gaze upon a woman as 
pretty as a rose fresh from outdoors. I had heard of the 
literary evenings in their home, and was invited to one of 
them, but gave an excuse to stay away. I felt I was still a bit 
too crude to mingle with the elect. 

My most important assignment on the Daily News, up 
to that time, came on August 11, 1887, when I was sent 
down to Chatsworth, Illinois, some ninety miles, to cover the 
aftermath of an appalling disaster there. On the previous 
night an excursion train on Jay Gould's bankrupt railroad, 
the Toledo, Peoria & Western, had piled up in a corn-field 
when a burning wooden trestle gave way. 

First reports stated that more than 100 persons had been 
killed, and 400 injured. The actual number of dead was 

I went first to the wreck scene, three miles east of, the 
town. One sleeping car had somehow remained right side up, 
and was still largely intact. But the others were mostly 
smashed or burned. Amid the corn rows were a lot of car- 
seats, on which the injured had been laid until they could 
be taken to Chatsworth. Many men and boys and a few 
women moved about amid the debris, some of them picking 
up bits of charred wood or scraps of twisted metal as 




Chicago Daily 

THE CHATSWORTH TRAIN WRECK. Aftermath of an 1887 Illinois 
disaster in which 80 persons were killed. 

That train had left Peoria at 8 p.m. on the 10th, loaded 
to the limit with 960 passengers, all bound for Niagara 
Falls on a $7.50 round-trip excursion* Six sleepers, six day 



coaches and chair-cars, three baggage-cars all of wood, of 
course, then and two locomotives. Being an hour and a 
half behind time, the train was running nearly a mile a 
minute when it passed Chatsworth. 

The wooden trestle was only 1 5 feet wide, bridging a dry 
creek-bed 10 feet below. Sparks from some other train sup- 
posedly had set it afire. The engineer on the first locomotive 
saw the flames too late. The first locomotive got across; the 
trestle crumpled under the weight of the second, and the cars 
piled up behind it, quickly taking fire. 

Many of the injured were women and children. Among 
those unhurt were only about fifty able-bodied men. They 
did all that they humanly could to rescue people trapped in 
the burning cars, and for some four hours they fought the 
flames with earth carried in their bare hands. Not a drop of 
water was available, and the dying suffered from thirst. 

Arriving in Chatsworth after dark, I had already steeled 
my emotions against the sights which met my eyes. News- 
paper men take on fortitude in the presence of catastrophes 
as do doctors and nurses. The city hall, depot, and another 
building had been turned into hospitals, serving also as 
morgues, with the dead lying on the floor covered with sheets 
or other pieces of cloth. Homes of the townsmen had been 
opened to survivors of the wreck who had to remain there 
with injured members of their families. I made sketches in 
the light of flickering lanterns and oil lamps. I can remember 
the sobbing of women and the groaning of the sufferers on 
the cots. 

Men who stood around waiting to learn whether some 
loved one would live discussed the cause of the crash. Some 
of them were outspoken in blaming Jay Gould, notorious 
for exploiting railroads and the railroad-using public. He 
had let the T. P & W. run down, one man said, until 
anybody who rode on it was in danger of being killed. 

My drawings were used in the Daily News next day. 
Done under difficult conditions, I can see now that they were 
crude. But they evidently were all right for that day, and 
they satisfied the editors. Stone complimented me, saying I 
had done a good job, 

Chapter 10 

MEANWHILE the attorneys for the convicted Anarch- 
ists had carried their case to the State Supreme Court, 
The city had cooled down; one no longer heard of 
plots to blow up police stations, nor of plans for revolution. 
A defense committee had collected money to cover the expense 
of the appeal; in the Daily News office we understood that it 
was having tough going; most people in Chicago accepted 
the jury's verdict as just, and thought the convicted men 
ought to be hanged: only a few intrepid souls argued other- 

In the local room, occasionally during lulls in the pres- 
sure of work, controversy over the kind of evidence presented 
would flare up again. Bits of the speeches made by the de- 
fendants in court would be quoted. Doubt would be cast 
upon some of the "plots'* uncovered by Captain Schaack. 
But the defenders of 'law and order" among the reporters 
would cite an array of evidence developed by the prosecution, 
to show that "the jury did right." 

When in November, 1886, the high Illinois tribunal 
granted a stay of execution of the sentence, bets at consider- 
able odds were offered by knowing newspapermen that the 
courts would affirm the verdict. I recall no takers. But when 
the appeal was filed and arguments were heard in Spring- 
field the following March, the prisoners and their counsel 
were hopeful of winning a new trial. The lawyers had cited 
numerous alleged errors in Judge Gary's procedure, and 
offered affidavits to prove that the jury had been "packed/* 

Six months passed before the court handed down its de- 
cision. It unanimously upheld the judgement. Discussing the 
case at great length, it gave many technical reasons for ap- 
proving the jury's findings. This decision was of course fea- 
tured in the Chicago dailies. 

But the defense would not yet admit defeat. Preparations 



were immediately begun to carry the fight to the United States 
Supreme Court, on constitutional grounds. General Ben- 
jamin F. Butler was one of the attorneys who presented the 
argument in Washington late in October, 1887, After five 
days' consideration by the full bench, Chief Justice Waite 
read its decision. No cause for reversal, it said* 

Earlier Judge Gary had sentenced the seven men in the 
county jail to die by hanging there on November 11. This 
left them only nine days to live. Counsel and members of the 
defense committee began circulating petitions addressed to 
Gov. Richard Oglesby urging commutation to life terms in 
prison. Many prominent individuals wrote the state chief 
executive to that end, and various delegations visited him in 
behalf of the doomed men. 

It was apparent now that sentiment concerning the An- 
archists had changed a good deal. Appeals in their behalf 
were signed by notables including Lyman J. Gage, later 
Secretary of the Treasury; William Dean Ho wells, Robert 
G. Ingersoll, Henry Demarest Lloyd, General Roger A. Pryor, 
and George Francis Train. From England protests against 
the impending execution were cabled by William Morris, 
Walter Crane, Annie Besant, Sir Walter Besant, and Oscar 
Wilde. And 16,000 members of working-class organizations 
in London, on a single day, signed a plea to Oglesby to save 
the doomed men. George Bernard Shaw was one of those 
who circulated that petition. 

While all this desperate activity was being generated by 
the defense, various well-known Chicago citizens were say- 
ing publicly that "the killing of the Haymarket martyrs must 
be atoned''; that ''the safety of our whole community de- 
mands that these executions proceed*'; that "those who de- 
fend anarchy by speaking in behalf of these red-handed 
murderers ought to be run out of the country." 

On Wednesday, November 9, two days before the sched- 
uled hanging, Butch White, city editor of the News, assigned 
me to go to the county jail and do pictures of the "Anarch- 
ists." The jail was adjacent to the criminal court building in 
which the trial had been held. After my credentials had estab- 
lished my identity at the entrance, I climbed the stairs to the 
tier where the seven were confined, and was allowed to roam 
freely there while I drew my sketches. Other visitors also 


were present (presumably friends of officials) , and they gazed 
into the cells of the doomed labor leaders curiously, as if at 
animals in a zoo. 

Albert Parsons sat writing at a table piled witjb books 
and papers. He reminded me of a country editor and, in 

Chicago Daily News 

shortly before the date set for the executions, and these drawings were 
published on that day. 

fact he had edited a weekly in Waco, Texas, before coming 
to Chicago. . . . Adolph Fischer, who had been a printer, 
looked like an eagle peering up through the bars of his cell, 
still hopeful, . . * George Engel, also a printer, had less the 
appearance of an intellectual than the others. His eyes seemed 
iull, as if all feeling had gone from him* . . . August Spies, 
editor of the Atbeiter Zeitang, was strikingly good looking 


and straightforward in his talk, . . . Michael Schwab, 
spectacled editorial writer, had a solemn, sad face* . . . 
Samuel' Fielden, a bearded ex-Methodist preacher from a 
country town in England, was a familiar speaker in halls and 
working-class street meetings, with the voice and intensity of 
a born orator. . . . 

But it is Louis Lingg that I remember best. Perhaps my 
memory of him is clearest because a ray of sunlight, coming 
through a little high window, was shining in his cell as I 
sketched him. Only twenty-two, a pale blond, he had a look 
of disdain for all. He sat proudly in his chair, facing me with 
unblinking eyes, and silent. Had he opened his lips, I thought, 
he probably would have said: "Go ahead, you reporters, do 
what your masters want you to do. As for me, nothing 
matters now/' 

Engel was fifty-one, Fielden forty. The others were in 
the thirties or twenties. Schwab's beard and Lingg's mous- 
tache could not disguise their youthfulness. 

Thursday brought word of an explosion in the jail it 
was reported that Lingg had put a bomb into his mouth 
and lighted the fuse, and was dying. Considering all the 
precautions taken by the authorities, the searching of visitors, 
and the frequent searching of the Haymarket defendants* 
cells, no one has ever satisfactorily explained how that bomb 
got past the guards. I was chilled with the horror of the story 
as details kept coming in. Suffering untold agony with his 
face terribly mutilated, Lingg remained conscious while three 
physicians worked over him, and lived six hours. 

Melville Stone was in the local room a great deal that 
day, directing arrangements for covering the execution. 
Friends of the prisoners, some of them prominent and influ- 
ential in civic affairs, were in Springfield, trying to get the 
Governor to intervene, but our correspondent wired that 
Oglesby could find no reason for such action. Late in the 
afternoon, however, the Governor issued a formal statement, 
commuting the sentences of Fielden and Schwab to life im- 
prisonment, but refusing to interfere with the sentences 
against the other four. (Oscar Neebe, the eighth defendant, 
was already serving a 15 -year term.) 

Wild rumors were in circulation, which the newspapers 


made the most of, increasing the fears of the populace. Police 
Captain Schaack had announced the discovery of a plot to 
rescue the prisoners. Detective Herman Schuettler was sup- 
posed to have heard, through a peep-hole cut in a wall of a 
North Side rooming house, the discussion of a plan to blow 
up the jail The force on guard there was doubled, and 
Schaack's men searched under the sidewalk for mines. De- 
struction of the city waterworks, a few blocks away, was 
asserted to be a part of the alleged conspiracy, and it was 
carefully protected. 

Many wealthy citizens had left town, for the rumors 
had it that if the four prisoners were hanged vengeance 
would be taken against the rich. Anarchists from other cities 
were declared to be streaming toward Chicago to join in the 
rescue attempt. 

I was much relieved when I learned that another artist, 
and not I, had been assigned to witness the execution and 
sketch the scene. I would have gone, of course, had I been 
ordered to, however gruelling the task. But Butch White 
gave the assignment to William Schmedtgen, an older man, 
who had joined the staff after me. I never knew why he was 
chosen, but figured that White thought I was too young. 

Next morning I saw Schmedtgen put a revolver in his 
hip pocket and noticed that he was pale and trembling. Out- 
side in the streets an ominous quiet prevailed. Business seemed 
to have come to a halt. Pedestrians were comparatively few, 
and every face was tense. We who stayed in the office didn't 
talk much, and when we spoke our voices were subdued. 
It was like sitting near the bedside of some one who is dying. 
When a copy-boy was heard yelling to another boy out in 
the corridor, one of the staff hurried out to shut him up. 

Reporters worked in relays covering the news in the 
vicinity of the jail. One by one they came into the office and 
wrote their individual angles of the story for the early edi- 
tions, then returned to the scene of action. Thus we got 
frequent bulletins on what was happening there. 

Three hundred policemen had formed a cordon around 
the jail, a block away from it on all sides, keeping the curious 
crowds back of a line of heavy rope. Only those persons who 
could satisfy the cops that they had bona fide passports could 


get through. Once a newspaperman got into the jail, the 
police would not let him out. 

There was no attempt at rescue. The hanging proceeded 
efficiently, from the viewpoint of officialdom. When the four 
men had dropped from the scaffold and the doctors had pro- 
nounced them dead, the tension of months suddenly was 
gone* All over town that afternoon there were drunken 
policemen, in and out of the saloons. Their honor as de- 
fenders of law and order had been vindicated. 

My pictures of the executed men and their fellow- 
defendants were used in the Daily News that day. Schmedt- 
gen's sketch of the hanging also was rushed into print. I saw 
him early that afternoon. He was white and silent. We were 
good friends for years afterward, but I never heard him 
speak of what was done in the jail-yard. 

Long detailed accounts of the hangings were published 
in the dailies, with the last words of the four Anarchists. 
. . . The general tenor of those accounts was that their 
final speeches were stage effects, that they were posing as 

When another night had passed and no reprisals had been 
attempted, the mass fear of the populace lifted, the skies were 
clear again, and people returned to their normal ways of life. 
Now the whole episode seemed like some weird dream. 

Stone congratulated the staff on its "excellent work" in 
covering the Haymarket case. 'It was a good job well ended/' 
he said. 

Our circulation had been steadily climbing in recent 

I didn't know until long afterward about the part that 
Melville Stone had played in the prosecution of the accused 
men. Not until 1921, when his autobiography was published, 
did I know that he wrote the verdict of the coroner's jury, 
although he was not a member of it. 

Called in for advice by the prosecutor, the city attorney, 
and the coroner, Stone took the position that it did not matter 
who threw the bomb, but that inasmuch as Spies, Parsons, 
and Fielden had advocated the use of violence against the 
police, "their culpability was clear." Then he wrote the ver- 
dict for the coroner's jury, which formed the basis for the 

Anarchists and 

Bomb Throwers 

Tine Greatest Murder Trial on Record, with. Speeches In 

ney for tne Prosecution and Defense. Profusely Illustrated. 
Price S Cents. Agents Wanted. 


WHEN I WAS MISLED. Carried away by propaganda against the Hay- 
market case defendants, I drew this illustration for the cover of a book up- 
holding their conviction. I regret that now. 



theory of "constructive conspiracy/' on which the prosecu- 
tion's case was based. It held that Mathias Degan (one of 
the seven policemen killed in the Haymarket Square explo- 
sion) , had come to his death from a bomb thrown by a per- 
son or persons acting in conspiracy with Spies, Parsons, Fiel- 
den, and others unknown. 

Everything I read about the Chicago Anarchists in 1886 
and 1887 and nearly everything I heard about them indicated 
that the accused men were guilty* The news reports of the 
case in the dailies were quite as biased against the defendants 
as were the editorials. Few who read the charges that some 
of them had advocated violence against the police realized 
that they were driven to that extreme by the wanton club- 
bing, shooting, and killing of workers by the police in the 
fight of the big industries against the eight-hour day move- 

Not until several years later did I discover that there 
was another side to the story. So when asked by a pub- 
lisher to draw a cover for a paper-bound anti-Anarchist 
book I readily assented. Anarchists and Bomb-Throwers was 
the title of this volume, and it upheld the convictions. My 
picture showed Law and Order, personified as an Amazonian 
woman, throttling a bunch of dangerous-looking men. 

If the dead can hear, I ask forgiveness now for that act. 
I was young and I had been misled by the clamor of many 
voices raised to justify a dark and shameful deed. 

Chapter 11 

^ITEADILY the Daily News was forging ahead. Its cir- 
culation was far in the lead among Chicago's eight 
English dailies, and it took delight in flaunting its 
figures. In 1885 its daily average sale had been 131,992 
copies, as attested to the American Newspaper Directory; the 
Tribune, Times, and Herald each claimed "more than 
25,000"; the Mail and Inter-Ocean had "more than 22,500." 
In 1886 the News average had increased to 152,851, while 
the Tribune had climbed above 37,500. The Times and Inter- 
Ocean had stood still, the Herald was down to 22,500, and 
the Mail had dropped to 20,000. 

The Tribune was a sixteen-page morning paper, with 
the 24-page Sunday edition; the News had only eight pages, 
appearing both morning and evening six days a week; the 
Mail had only four pages. 

Much older than the Daily News, the Tribune (owned 
by Joseph Medill) obviously was envious of the strides made 
by the Stone-Lawson paper since its establishment in 1876. 
One story told with glee by men on the News had to do 
with a trap engineered by that paper to catch the Tribune 
in a theft of exclusive news. Repeatedly the Medill sheet had 
helped itself to good foreign dispatches originated by the 
News; also its New York correspondent found the press 
there a ready source of intelligence from all over the United 
States and from other countries as well. 

Matthew Arnold had lately completed a lecture tour in 
this country, with Chicago as one stop on his itinerary, and 
remembering his tendency to caustic criticism, the Daily News 
executives saw in him an ideal peg on which to hang a story 
which would tempt the pirates over on Dearborn Street. 
Under Melville Stone's instructions a supposed cable dispatch 
from London was written, quoting from an article concern- 
ing the English poet's impressions of Chicago, declare^ to 



have just been published in the Pali Matt Journal In that 
"article" Arnold was represented as assailing various promi- 
nent Chicagoans for boorishness and thickheadedness. 

Stone sent the purported dispatch to the editor of the 
New York Tribune with a confidential letter of explanation, 
and soon the alleged criticism of Windy City notables was 
printed in a single copy of Whitelaw Reid's paper. That copy 
quickly reached the desk of the Chicago Tribunes correspond- 
ent, who put the story on the wire. The Daily News solemnly 
sent reporters to interview the citizens whose toes had been 
stepped on, and all of them were indignant. Meanwhile 
Stone cabled to Matthew Arnold explaining the hoax, and he 
answered saying he had not written any such article. Then 
the News let the public in on the secret, pointing out that 
the Pall Mall Journal was non-existent. 

But three years had passed since that incident, and the 
Tribune was showing new verve. It had spruced up the en- 
trance to the building it occupied at Madison and Dearborn 
Streets, and had put in an elevator, the Daily News not 
having yet installed one. And that winter the Tribune re- 
vealed that it had taken notice of me. 

Robert Patterson was running the Tribune. He was a 
son-in-law of Joseph Medill. Patterson sent for me, indicated 
special interest in my pictures, and offered me a job. I had 
no trouble in getting $50 a week. Giving Stone notice, I ex- 
plained that I felt this was an opportunity that I couldn't 
pass by. He said he was sorry I was leaving, and added: "If 
at any time you get tired of the Tribune there will be a place 
open for you on the Daily News/' 

Assignments on the Tribune were often vague; the editors 
seemed to have trouble in deciding what they wanted. But 
one order that challenged my imagination was for sketches 
of the great blizzard in New York City in March, 1888. 
''See if you can make a few pictures of that storm/' was 
Patterson's request. Of course I had seen various woodcut 
illustrations of New York streets and some photographs, but 
now I had before me not a shred of graphic material for in 
that day the Tribune had not developed a reference library. 
With nothing to go on except the telegraphic reports, I drew 
from word descriptions several pen-and-ink sketches which 
at least caught the spirit of the mighty snowdrifts in the 


recommending me to the editor of the 7Vw; ForA- World, 


East and gave the Tribune an aspect of worthy enterprise* 

With money from my increased salary piling up in a 
savings bank, I had a fine sense of well-being. I went to 
Monroe for a weekend, and basked in the warmth of ad- 
miring glances. But I knew that this admiration was not 
caused so much by my drawings that my fellow Monroeites 
had been seeing in the Chicago papers as by the fact that 
Dan Young's boy was making $50 a week. My imagination 
was soaring on the new job, and I think that the quality 
of my work decidedly improved. 

Shortly after this, however, Robert Patterson informed 
me that "circumstances have compelled us to make some 
readjustments in the staff/' and that it was necessary to dis- 
pense with my services. "Illustrations in newspapers are just 
a passing vogue/' he said. "People will get tired of them/' 
I was stunned, of course, but I asked no questions, did not 
inquire what was the real reason for my being discharged. 
I have never asked an editor why he didn't want my work; 
it would have been too much like asking a woman why she 
didn't love me. I had a suspicion that the Tribune had hired 
me away from the Daily News simply to weaken the staff 
of the latter. 

Stone's offer to make a place for me at any time had 
sounded pleasant when he uttered it. Yet now I had no 
thought of going back to the News. Having ample money in 
reserve, I was inclined to relax and free-lance for a while. 

My living quarters were still in the little room on Wabash 
Avenue. But though my own room was cramped, I found 
ease and comfort in leisure hours in visiting upstairs with a 
fine looking blonde of about thirty. She managed a depart- 
ment in one of the big State Street stores, but never talked 
shop. Her two rooms were above mine. Edith knew about 
me, from our landlady, and had seen my drawings in the 

When her evenings were lonely, she would signal to me 
by tapping on the floor. On my first visit she had thought- 
fully turned the lights low when they appeared to annoy 
my eyes, and soon, without quite knowing how it happened, 
I found her in my arms. She had a healthy outlook, and 
laughter in her soul. Presently I (or perhaps it was she) 
had broken down all the barriers of convention that keep 


a man and woman apart. For me it was akin to standing 
on a precipice and suddenly gathering courage for a dive 
into strange waters below. 

Knowing much more of life than I, Edith was unafraid, 
and her ecstasy was like wine to my senses. Here was roman- 
tic adventure about which I had wondered and for which I 
had often longed. But quickly afterward, there was a let- 
down. As I lay alone in my own room later that night, I 
was shaken. Had I been wise? Echoes of the Rev. Mr. Bush- 
nell's voice, thundering against the iniquity of carnal sin, 
swept in to haunt me. Next morning uncertainty lingered. 
Yet when on another of Edith's lonely evenings she again 
tapped the signal, I could not say no. Once more the tingling 
caresses of a free soul lifted me to mountain-tops. 

But the reaction followed as before, taking my mind off 
my work. I saw that, for all of Edith's charm and the joy of 
being with her, I was steadily being drawn into an impossible 
situation. Walking down Michigan Avenue in the fresh air 
to think things out, I determined not to become involved in 
any other passion but the creating of pictures. All else must 
be subordinated to that. It was not economic fear which 
deterred me then; not until later in life did I collide with the 
frightening financial consequences of love. At that time I 
simply did not want to assume any emotional responsibilities 
other than that of pursuing my own artistic development; 
my career must not become sidetracked by a sentimental 

Overnight I decided that it was time for me to pack up 
and go to New York. I would study in the art schools there. 
Newspaper work now seemed commonplace ; I wanted to go 
far beyond it paint, experiment with color, deal with sub- 
tleties, weave into my pictures the undertones and overtones 
of life. 

New York City had something, I was sure, that one with 
artistic leanings could never find in Chicago. Suddenly that 
city had grown crude in my eyes. My work was not appre- 
ciated, and I was out of a job. Now what? All the world's 
great lived in or visited New York at some time or other; 
tot nearly so many reached Chicago. 

\ I could see myself growing vastly in creative stature in 
he atmosphere of the metropolis. There was nothing to hold 


me back* I had saved enough money to carry me along for 
many months, while I was working out plans for the future. 
Eugene Field gave me a letter to CoL John A* Cockerill, who 
had attained renown as the ' 'fighting editor*' of the Cincinnati 
Enquirer and the Washington Post, and who at that time was 
managing editor of the New York World under Joseph 
Pulitzer* Gene laid it on thick. He wrote: 

Dear Colonel Cockerill: 

This will introduce Mr. A. H. Young, by all odds 
the brightest and best caricaturist and artist we have had 
here in Chicago. Inasmuch as he intends to make his 
home in New York, you will do the smart thing if you 
get a first mortgage on him. God bless you. 

Eugene Field 

Also I had an invitation from the art editor of the New 
York Graphic to join his staff. This was the first daily news- 
paper anywhere to emphasize the importance of pictures with 
text reduced to a minimum. The Graphic staff included such 
able cartoonists and humorous illustrators as Kemble, 
Cusachs, Frost, and the inimitable Hopkins ("Hop"), who 
after the fall of the Graphic went to Australia and was that 
country's leading cartoonist for many years. 

Before making the 900-mile jump to the East, I went 
home to Monroe to say goodbye to the folks, and to lounge 
around town for a couple of days and tell various friends 
and acquaintances about my intentions. My father's eyes 
lighted up as he told customers that his son had not only 
been working for Chicago newspapers, but that I had saved 
enough cash to carry me for a year or more through art school 
in New York. My mother voiced anxiety about my going 
so far away from home, but I could see that she too was 
quietly proud of my progress. I spent the evenings with 
Elizabeth North, agreeably. "I always knew you'd be a 
success/' she said. 

The town seemed smaller now than before. And there 
had been changes some of the old characters that had fre- 
quented our store had died. Bill Blunt had been appointed 
town constable, a big cherry tree in Frank Shindler's yard 
had been cut down after being struck by lightning, and the 
Milwaukee & St. Paul depot had a fresh coat of paint. 


Charlie Booth, editor of the Sentinel, as usual, knocked off 
work for a half hour to talk with me. He'd always had 
ambitions to go to New York himself, he said, but had been 
too busy to get around to it, Jim Fitzgibbons, poolroom 
proprietor, asked me to keep an eye open for a cousin of his 
who at last accounts was driving a street car somewhere in 
New York City. 

Back in Chicago, to cut my moorings, I had another long 
evening with Edith, and was relieved when she raised no 
tearful fuss about my going away. But my laughter wasn't 
real when she said gayly: "I may send you a nice little boy 
some day. How would you like that?" It was as if I were 
fleeing from the devil when I boarded a Michigan Central 
train. Yet as the clicking wheels bore me Eastward, I was 
warmed anew by the thought of her laughter and her supreme 
self-assurance. I knew she was no more of a sinner than I 
and that has been my attitude toward intimate relations 
between the sexes ever since. 

I wish I could brag about my prowess in the matter of 
sex in those growing years. I wish I had had more experience 
in amorous affairs, not so much as my friend Frank Harris 
claimed to have had, but anyhow bolder and with less re- 
gard for the consequences. The Puritan bourgeois ideas of 
a country town pressed heavily upon me, and affected my ap- 
proach to life. Gloomy admonitions were my heritage: Thou 
shah not! and Beware of disease! 

Having such a background of morality and fear, it was 
fortunate that I also had a talent to look after, which helped 
me to forget the flesh. But I saw many girls whom I wanted 
to love. Vicariously I have loved and still love thousands 
of them. Through most of my years sex in my life has 
been repressed. Whether I am the better or worse for it is just 
idle speculation now. . . . Often I am skeptical when I 
hear of the vaunted reputations of certain authors and artists 
as conquistadotes among women. I doubt their emotional 
capacity to keep up the pace of which they boast. 

Chapter 1 2 

A the train sped eastward I sat in the luxurious diner 
and reveled in the scene, as the green~and~brown 
panorama of the fields flitted past. I liked to see 
farmers wave their straw hats, and horses out to pasture 
kick up their heels and run as the train sped by, as if they 
were showing off and saying: * 'Think you're going fast? 
Look at us!" As we went a bit slower through small villages 
I liked to see the girls and boys at stations and cross-roads, 
gazing at this express train bound for New York. I suspected 
they were envious of us lucky passengers, and were hoping 
that some day they, too, would be riding on a fast train to a 
fast city. 

I read again the letter from Eugene Field to Colonel 
Cockerill, and the invitation from the Illustrated Daily 
Graphic editor to work for him. There was satisfaction in 
knowing that I had such letters to fall back upon if needed. 
But there was no hurry about my getting a job. I wanted to 
study for a while. 

My emotions flared high. I whistled a tune in rhythm 
with the rumble and click of the wheels. At ease in the Pull- 
man, the first I had ever ridden in, I felt that boyhood dreams 
were coming true. Towns and cities were momentary inci- 
dents along the way. We left Indiana behind and were in 
Michigan. One knew that only because the time-table said 
so; the character of the country remained unchanged. A 
humorous conception of my childhood came back the 
thought that each state was of a different color, as in maps, 
and that between them was a clearly marked boundary. 

I had brought along some reading matter Harper's 
Weekly, the Daily Graphic, Judge, Puck, and Scribner's. As 
usual I went through their pages more than once scanning 
the pictures first, then the text and the advertisements. The 
quality of the illustrations varied considerably, and they 



seemed much below the standard of the European draftsmen 
of the graphic arts in social satire, political cartoons, and 

Advertisements of that time included names of firms and 
products which are still familiar Pear's Soap; Pond's Ex- 
tract; Spencerian Pens; Ayer's Cherry Pectoral; Baker's 
Breakfast Cocoa; Columbia Bicycles; Mellin's Food; Cuti- 
cura Soap; Royal Baking Powder, and Castoria: "Children 
Cry For It" After I had studied the illustrations in the maga- 
zines, and read the short pieces of text, I got out my sketch- 
book and began drawing the faces of my fellow-passengers, 
and setting down memoranda for jokes about travel. Then, 
and for many years, I made about ten drawings with a joke 
comment or dialogue for every one that I finished and sold, 
Thus I kept exercising my hand and eye. 

We reached Detroit after dark, and here the train was 
broken up into sections, run onto a huge flatboat, and ferried 
across the river to Windsor. The Canadian shore seemed far 
away, the Detroit harbor limitless. There was a stiff wind 
blowing, and there was a sense of pushing into an unknown 
sea. I wondered what all the fuss was about, as we were towed 
across to the rail- dock on the other side. 

On Clarence Webster's advice I had taken a lower berth, 
and was glad of this when I saw that the uppers had no 
windows. Marveling, I watched the porter transform the 
double seat into a sleeping section . * . In the washroom 
several traveling men were smoking and indulging in small 
talk about business, politics, and the state of the crops, and 
uttering commonplaces of banter. 

My berth was comfortable, but it was not easy to go to 
sleep. After I put out the light I lay awake for hours, it 
seemed, looking out the window at the countryside, mysteri- 
ous under the stars. I had hoped to see Niagara Falls, but was 
on the wrong side of the car, and anyhow I was sound asleep 
when we passed that famed wonder, before dawn. . . . 
There was a thrill in seeing the Erie canal, about which I had 
read a good deal. The railroad was a stiff competitor, but 
there were still numerous barges moving both east and west in 
"Clinton's ditch." 

When we turned southward at Albany, my heart 
pounded faster. Here was the historic Hudson, which grew 


lovelier as we hurried on into the Highlands, I thought of 
the legends of Rip Van Winkle and the gnomes with whom 
he played at tenpins, and other tales that Washington Irving 
told of this majestic valley. But the long run into the city 
after we passed the outskirts made me conscious of an ap- 
proach to something ominous maybe the end instead of the 

Outside Grand Central Station were a flock of men with 
badges on their hats, all offering to take me to a choice hotel. 

I whistled a great deal in those days. 

But I knew where I was going. Some one had recommended 
the Morton House in Union Square as home-like and cheap. 
So I hunted around till I found a policeman, learned how to 
get there, and then took a hansom cab. 

After I got settled in the hotel, I went out and looked 
around a little. That afternoon and evening I walked miles. 
New York was full of wonders, different from Chicago, 
brighter, cleaner. The clear sunlight was a startling contrast 
to the smoky atmosphere of the crude city I had left, which 


Mayor Carter Harrison excused for being so dirty by saying: 
"Chicago is like a growing boy who doesn't like to bother 
keeping himself clean/' 

Although I went to particular places, I found almost any 
place interesting during those first days in the metropolis. 
Just looking on, wherever I happen to be, even to this day, is 
sure to reveal something that holds me with some dramatic 
import From the Morton House I would go over to Bren- 
tano's on the west side of Union Square, to scan the latest 
magazines. Then there was Tiffany's on the southwest corner 
of Fifteenth Street, where the Amalgamated Bank is now. 
Here coaches would drive up, letting out women shoppers 
dressed in style, meaning that they wore bustles. The flar- 
ing hoop-skirt had had its day, but complete coverage was 
still the fashion, woman's form being left to one's imagina- 

I walked up to Nineteenth Street on Broadway, and gazed 
into the windows of Lord and Taylor, about which I had 
heard so much. They reminded me of a poem about Broad- 
way that I had read in school about "silks and satins that 
shimmer and shine" and opals that gleam "like sullen fires 
through a pallid mist/' 

In a few days I took a room in a boarding house on 
Sixteenth Street, west of Fifth Avenue. W. J. Arkell, pub- 
lisher of Judge, had just put up his new building at the 
northwest corner of that intersection. I clipped one of 
Thomas Nast's cartoons from a copy of the Daily Graphic 
and tacked it on my wall, and one day in conversation with 
the servant girl who made up my room, I found that she 
had worked in the Nast household in Morristown, N. J. She 
told me stories about the Nast family. Surely now I was near 
the heart of things. 

New York agreed with me. I liked the sea-air. I was 
having fun. For two weeks I just loafed and wandered about 
town. I wasn't ready to begin systematic study yet, nor to 
attempt selling pictures, though of course I made sketches 
everywhere of people and scenes. 

I explored Chinatown, and went down to see the site of 
P. T. Barnum's museum at Broadway and Ann streets. And 
one day I walked across Brooklyn Bridge, and was stirred 
by the sight of those tremendous arches and the monumental 


grace of the whole structure* I was curiously interested, too, 
in the Richard K. Fox building, in which the Police Gazette 
was published near the bridge on the Manhattan side. 

Another time I loafed along the water's edge in Battery 
Park, and was impressed by Castle Garden, then a landing 
station for immigrants, and now the Aquarium. Boats were 
plying to the Statue of Liberty, unveiled only three years 
before. But I was satisfied to view that at a distance, even 
though an old Irishman standing on the wharf informed me 
that Bedloe's Island, on which the statue stands, had "a 
great history/* His father, he said, was one of thousands in 
excursion boats who saw Hicks, the last pirate in those waters, 
hanged there. 

As in Chicago, everywhere in New York's principal busi- 
ness streets then there were networks of overhead wires strung 
on poles. These were chiefly for telegraphic purposes, al- 
though some of them carried telephone conversations. News- 
paper editors frequently urged the city council to compel 
the owning companies to put those wires underground, since 
they were a grave handicap in fighting fires. Horse-cars moved 
along Broadway from the Battery to some point far north. 
Steve Brodie had lately jumped from Brooklyn Bridge into 
the East River or had not, depending on which party to 
that controversy one belonged to. And now he was reported 
to be preparing to go over Niagara Falls in a barreL 

Remembering that to my regret I had never got around to 
visiting the Chamber of Horrors in Chicago, I made it a 
point to go to the Eden Musee on Twenty-third Street, a 
similar institution. Here were figures of famous and notorious 
individuals, amazingly modeled in wax Queen Victoria, 
Jesse James, Oscar Wilde, Brigham Young, Horace Greeley, 
the Prince of Wales, Jay Gould, Boss Tweed, Garibaldi, 
John Brown, U. S. Grant, Abraham Lincoln, John Wilkes 
Booth, Robert G. Ingersoll, Jenny Lind, Guiteau, who mur- 
dered President Garfield, and a host of others. 

But the exhibit which intrigued me most was the glass 
enclosed Dying Gypsy Maiden. Just why she was dying was 
not stated, but the expiring heave of her bare bosom was so 
realistically achieved by hidden mechanism that I felt almost 

Everybody from out of town was drawn to this wonder 


palace. It was the high spot of interest in New York. If 
a farmer was seen standing on a street corner apparently lost, 
it was taken as a matter of course that he wanted to be 
directed to the Eden Musee. Once I saw an old fellow stand- 
ing near the site of the present Flatiron Building, stroking 
his whiskers and looking first one way and then another. I 
walked over to him and said: "The Eden Musee is right 
down there on the uptown side of the street/' He thanked 

Soon, however, I had my fill of loafing and decided that 
for my own good I must get down to work again* So I 
signed up at the Art Students' League, and began studying 
there industriously, to develop thoroughness, for I knew that 
my flip sketches needed a basic understanding, especially of 
anatomy. Teaching- routine at the League was much the same 
as at the Academy of Design in Chicago, but I found no one 
among the instructors who would give the same individual 
attention to the groping student as Vanderpoel had. 

Here, too, we had to draw from casts, which always 
bored me. I did this solemn drafting conscientiously, none 
the less, though I considered it a waste of time, and found 
compensation for such tedious labor by sketching comic pic- 
tures around the margin of the paper on which the serious 
effort awaited criticism. After a few weeks I decided to 
graduate myself to the life classes of Kenyon Cox and Carroll 
Beckwith on the floor above, and strangely enough, no one 
objected ; I just walked in as if I belonged. 

Inspiration from my youthful partial knowledge of 
Dore's work had carried me a long way. But now I was 
becoming acquainted with the political and social satires of 
other leading graphic artists in England and France Ho- 
garth, Rowlandson, John Leech, George Cruikshank, John 
Tenniel, Daumier, and Steinlen, and all of these held im- 
portant and increasing values for me. 

Feeling financially secure and being engrossed in study, I 
neglected to present Eugene Field's letter to Colonel Cock- 
erill of the World, and had no inclination to submit my work 
to the magazines. But I kept close watch on all periodicals 
as well as the newspapers, for the trend in cartoons and illus- 
trations. Puck, Judge, and Life were at their best Harper's 


Weekly was beginning to slip, and that year the Illustrated 
Daily Graphic folded up. 

Journalism today is for the most part gentlemanly and 
decorous, in so far as the relations among newspapers in the 
big cities are concerned. But in that day the New York dailies 
openly assailed one another's actions and motives with all 
the contempt that lily-white citizens might express toward 
horse-thieves and road agents. Dana of the Sun and Pulitzer 
of the World fought a long feud, widely talked about, and 
the World and Herald frequently snarled at each other. 

I knew, of course, that it was the World that had col- 
lected $300,000 to provide a base for the Statue of Liberty 
after the city, state, and federal governments had all failed 
to make it possible for the French people's gift to be set up 
on this side of the Atlantic. The World was fighting Tam- 
many. Frequently it assailed the municipal administration 
for mismanagement, pointing to the failure to clean the back 
streets, the fire-trap tenements, sweat-shops, and the condi- 
tions which bred tuberculosis. 

Now and then I meandered into the heart of the East 
Side. Here was stark poverty, even worse than I had seen in 
the slums of Chicago. Great numbers of children played 
amid filth and debris in the narrow streets. Old people sat on 
doorsteps or moved listlessly along the walks. They seemed 
to have lost hope. Gangs of toughs congregated on corners. 

But looking at all this squalor I felt instinctively that 
most human beings did not prefer dirt to cleanliness, and 
they did not like stealing better than earning, nor a bad name 
better than a good one. I made sketches here and there, but 
did not remain long in one spot. There was a sense of escape 
in getting back to my room. The World's editorials had not 
exaggerated. Yet what could one do about it? Nothing, it 
seemed to me, except through reforms: cleaning streets, pay- 
ing good wages, providing for cheap carfare, etcetera. I could 
come no nearer to an answer than that. 

I continued to read Harper's Weekly, following the 
work of W. A. Rogers therein (Nast had severed his 
connection with that periodical a couple of years earlier) ; 
and watched Life, Judge, and Puck. The latter contained 
topical cartoons, and editorial comment with many pages of 
drawings to illustrate what are known today as gags. The 


cartoons by Joseph Keppler, Bernard Gillam, Frederick 
Opper, and Zim were leading features. Pack, too, was agitat- 
ing for civic virtue, and for the sending of bribe-taking alder- 
men to Sing Sing. But it viewed the Single Tax movement 
as akin to anarchy; had fought Henry George and his co- 
worker, the heroic Catholic, Father Edward McGlynn, when 
the former ran for mayor; and attacked Greenbackism as 
spelling national ruin. Frequently it ridiculed the United 
States Senate as a servant of the moneyed interests* It was 

of Puck. 

BERNARD GILLAM, an outstanding 
illustrator in the Eighties. 

strong for civil service reform and a low tariff, and inten- 
tionally "mugwump", as liberal Republicans were then called. 
Whatever the mixed social ideas I was thus absorbing, 
the lessons I gained from studying Keppler' s drawings were 
valuable. He was less cumbersome than Nast, having that 
swing of line reminiscent of the early nineteenth century 
German draftsmen. Today, as one turns back to the pages 
of Pack in the years from 1870 to 1890, it will be seen that, 
though dated in subject, Keppler's pictures have an arresting 
quality of color and a spontaneity agreeable alike to student 
and layman. But for individuality, and for ability to "make 
fun of something", Nast was pre-eminent. It was said in 
those days that his cartoons of Horace Greeley during the 
Greeley- Grant campaign for the Presidency were a large fac- 
tor in causing the death of that brilliant but eccentric editor 


within a month after his defeat in 1872. I didn't believe 
this, but I knew that his darts of satire were sharp* 

P. T. Barnum was then living in New York, in his old 
age. One bright Sunday I saw him attending services in 
Robert Collyer's Unitarian church at Park Avenue and 34th 
Street. I sketched him as he bowed his head in prayer, and as 
he talked with friends afterward in the sun outside. He was 
round-shouldered, and had a curly fringe of gray hair left 
under the rim of his silk hat. Doubtless he would have been 
pleased if he had known that I was making pictures of him. 
In these days the venerable showman often stopped people on 
the streets and engaged them in conversation. At the end he 
would say: "Do you know who you've been talking to? . . . 
You've been talking to P. T. Barnum." ... I had no idea 
then that years later I would own a home in Bethel, Con- 
necticut, the town in which Barnum was born. 

As the months went on I thought a great deal about the 
possibility of going to Paris, for I had been hearing of the 
art schools there ever since I signed up with the League. It 
seemed to be the ambition of most of my fellow-students to 
study in the French capital, though others dreamed of 
Munich. They talked much, also, of the unrestricted life in 
the Latin Quarter, as something else to look forward to. 

Clarence Webster knew from my letters that I had con- 
siderable yearning to continue my art education abroad. 
Although I knew that art schools could not make artists, I 
enjoyed the environment and the thought that I had an aim 
in life. And one day in the early summer of 1889, Web 
wrote me saying: "I am planning to go to Europe for a 
couple of months. England, Wales, and France. The Inter- 
Ocean is willing to let me do a series of travel articles, which 
will cover my living expense over there. How would you 
like to go along and illustrate my writings? I am sure that 
I could arrange with the office to get steamship passage for 
both of us through the advertising department/' 

I answered that I would think about it. And the more I 
pondered the idea, the more it appealed to me. I began to 
see myself as an art student in Paris for at least a year. 
So in a few days I packed up and took a train for Chicago. 
There Web and I conferred with one of the Inter-Ocean 


editors, and we agreed that I would go home to Wisconsin 
for a short visit before we started East, 

In Monroe I spent a few days with the folks, and had 
some evenings with Elizabeth North, who looked more at- 
tractive than ever. Now that I had become a New Yorker, 
my parents had taken to reading every bit of New York 
news, and Harpers Weekly continued to be a regular visitor 
at home. Father was interested in having me compare the Art 
Students' League with the Chicago Academy of Design 
which had benefited me the most? 

Monroe appeared still smaller. But the cheese business 
was growing in Green County, with the steady increase in 
the number of Swiss immigrants* Old George Banks, the 
druggist, whose walk I used to imitate to the great amuse* 
ment of my mother he walked like a king on parade had 
grown fatter, but dignity triumphed with his every step. 
Everybody in Monroe was talking about the Johnstown flood 
in Pennsylvania which had drowned nearly 2,300 persons a 
few weeks before. 

My sister Nettie and Clyde Copeland had set up a com- 
fortable home over on the north side of town, and my "No 
wedding bells for me" picture was in plain sight in the parlor 
when I was there for supper; I never knew whether Nettie 
displayed it only when I was around, but I grant that she 
would have been justified in hiding it at other times. Mother 
seemed less anxious when I left this time, even though I 
was soon to cross the ocean, than she had when I was going 
only to Chicago the first time. Perhaps she felt that I was 
able to take care of myself. 

We had railroad passes also, and on the Baltimore & Ohio 
train, Web posted me on recent happenings in Chicago. . . . 
Melville Stone was traveling in Europe, spending some of 
the money he got from Victor Lawson for his interest in the 
Daily News. . . . The jury was being picked for the trial 
of the alleged Clan-na-Gael conspirators for the murder of 
Dr. Cronin. He had been lured from his home at night by a 
purported call to attend a sick person, and his body had been 
found in a catch-basin on the outskirts of the city. The 
doctor had been a member of the Clan, and was supposed to 
have been killed because he had betrayed some of its secrets 


and charged Alexander Sullivan, a lawyer, and others with 
misappropriating the Clan's funds. . . . There was new 
talk of building a broad ship canal from Lake Michigan to 
the Mississippi. . . . Temperance advocates were trying to 
get an ordinance passed to abolish free lunch in the saloons, 
with widespread opposition. . . . The police were investi- 
gating a report that Rudolph Schnaubelt, who was supposed 
to have thrown the Haymarket bomb, had been seen in South 
America. ... A man named Garfinkle was trying to finance 
a balloon trip to the North Pole. . . . And Web told me 
the gossip in art circles, and around the Chicago Press Club, 
where I first met Opie Read, Stanley Waterloo, and Ben King. 
It was Ben who wrote that classic parody of the popular 
poem: "If I Should Die Tonight/' 

Arriving in New York, I was feeling hot, sooty, sticky, 
and sick, and I said to Web, "If a B. %$ O. train can make 
me miserable, what will an ocean liner do to me?" 

Chapter 13 

EVERPOOL was our destination, on the Cunard Line's 
Teutonic, newest and finest ocean liner afloat. With 
the gentlemanly Bruce Ismay, president of the line, 
mo.destly receiving congratulations on board, we sailed on 
August 2 1 from a pier in the Hudson River: Our tickets were 
second class, but we had an outside cabin with permission (a 
courtesy to the press) to roam anywhere on the ship. 

Web sauntered about the decks locating notables and 
interviewing them, everything and everybody being grist to 
the mill of the Inter-Ocean's humorous correspondent with 
the pen-name "Conflagration Jones/* But we spent some of 
our time sketching, especially down in the steerage. I did not 
care to meet many people, for I soon verified my fears that 
I was not a good sailor. There were days and nights when 
the steamer rared up and pranced, and it was no fun to be 
rolled around in a ship's cabin like a marble in a pigs-iri- 
clover puzzle. . . . On calm days, however, I managed Well 
with the drawings, and the voyage netted me numerous pic- 
tures of those about us. Among the dignitaries riding first 
class I sketched the railroad magnate, Collis P. Huntington, 
and his wife. I talked with a woman devoted to a small 
daughter who would recite on the slightest provocation, 
"Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight'*; and an evangelist who 
annoyed people by asking them: "Have you found Christ?" 
When he asked me, I thought of the Swede in the old story 
who was asked the same question and answered that he 
"didn't know he was lost." 

I had several chats with a ruddy Englishman who had 
been traveling in the States and had not been favorably im- 
pressed. His main objection was: "Your bloomin' country 
is all full of 'ills and 'oles." Then there was the man who 
was always keeping tabs on the ship's course, which was no 
concern of mine* 



We landed in Liverpool a week later. Walking around 
the streets, my legs still felt as if swayed by the steamer's 
roll. I made sketches of boys selling matches, and turned to 
gaze at tall, stately girls with rose-petal complexions who 
passed. To Web I said: "DuMaurier is right. He knows how 
to draw the English girls, and Burne-Jones knows how to 
paint them/' We went to the Walker art gallery, where I 
saw a Dore oil painting of an English flower girl and it 
stimulated my desire to see the Dore gallery in London. I 
had not known that he had mastered painting as well as 

But before going on to London, Web had a notion that 
we ought to take a look at the old town of Chester, and 
then visit Wales. At the railway station a hand-swung school- 
bell was rung by the conductor when it was time for our 
train to start. The ride to Chester took only an hour. And 
here I was looking at rural England of which I had seen so 
many woodcuts and steel engravings. The fences were mostly 
hedges, though I saw a few of barbed wire, and wrote home 
that they looked as uncomfortable to sit on as the American 
brand. Trees in this section were mostly gnarled and twisted 
oaks, and the old broken- down stiles, with their frames of 
overgrown hedges, were just as the English artists had time 
and again pictured them. 

We walked up the narrow main street of ancient Chester, 
wending our way through the slow traffic, where people were 
all jumbled together with donkey-carts, horses, wagons, and 
market-baskets. Our eyes were kept peeled looking for a place 
to stop, as Webster said, "off the trail of the deadly tourists/' 
I remember passing Blossom's Hotel. I wonder if it is still 
there. A sturdy, weathered looking establishment. But we 
didn't stop. It seemed a likely place to run into tourists* 

The buildings in that picturesque city may have been 
erected in the time of King Arthur, for all I know their 
upper stories jutting out over the sidewalks, propped up, but 
sagged into complacency as if ready for another century. 
The general effect of this street upon my eye was like seeing 
a stage-set for a play of the time of Cromwell in the days 
of old "when knights were bold and robbers held their 

After going some distance from the main thoroughfare 


we discovered a hotel called the Red Lion. Here we stayed 
four days. Both of us began to realize that we were a long 
way from home. No letters from loved ones. Of course it was 
too soon to expect any, but "nobody loves us/' we thought, 
and we could have eaten worms or paid any penance then 
for the rash conduct of quitting our native soil. 

Proceeding to the historic Chester Cathedral, we found 
the portal open wide, so we walked in and sat down. There 
we slumped, shafts of sunshine slanting through the stained 
glass windows, but not for us. I knew I wasn't getting re- 
ligion, but I was sad with homesickness. 

After our morning in the cathedral we began to get 
hold of ourselves. We found a boat and took a row on the 
River Dee. That night I started a letter to the Monroe Senti- 
nel which wasn't finished until we reached Paris and it 
told a good deal about our adventures that day. In my early 
childhood I heard a poem recited (or maybe it was a song 
sung) the refrain of which was: "Mary, call your cattle 
home across the sands o' Dee." In my letter I reported that 
"it would take a good deal of loud calling, even by a husky 
English girl, to get a drove of tired cows across the sands 
of Dee. The sand of this country is what we call plain mud 
at home/* 

We passed at least a dozen boatloads of boys and girls 
in a half mile, dressed in proper boating clothes, the girls 
rowing as efficiently as the boys. I wrote that "the American 
contingent cut quite a figure on the River Dee that beautiful 
morning. Mr* Webster, with a big sombrero on his head 
and a section of an American flag around his neck, did the 
rowing, while I sat at the helm and did all the steering and 

Chester was surrounded by a high stone wall supposed 
to have been originally built by the Romans. I remember 
standing on the very stone of the wall where Charles I stood 
watching while his army was being defeated by Crom well's 
troops on the moor below. That of course is the Baedeker 
thing to do and a guide who caught me at it charged me 
three pence. 

Taking a cab on another day, we rode through the Duke 
of Westminster's estate, my companion remarking as we 
passed deer, grouse, and other wild game, "all for his Royal 


Nibs to shoot/* We walked around outside the ancient wall, 
and I made a pencil drawing of the cathedral by moonlight. 
We had planned to go out to Gladstone's summer home, 
Hawarden Castle, six miles from Chester, but the fourth day 
we concluded we'd better see something of Wales. 

Back at the hotel, however, we learned that Wambold's 
circus, then swinging through the provinces, had come to 
town, and we decided to stay another day. Web had a sudden 
notion that it would be worth our while to travel with 
Wambold's aggregation. His idea was that maybe they would 
take on two live Americans. He would lecture on the Ameri- 
can Indian, while I would draw easel pictures to illustrate 
the lecture as he talked. We went in the evening, and found 
the performance much like that of the small wagon shows at 
home. We were interested particularly in the animal tent 
and saw a caged stork resent being pointed at and catch a 
man's forefinger in the grip of its vise-like bill. 

But what I most enjoyed here was catching fragments 
of conversation just as I did at the hotel and as I do today 
wherever I go. Around the bar of the Red Lion, old-timers 
talked much about the Isle of Man, which was only sixteen 
miles off shore. "I 'ear 'Awkins went to the h-island today." 
Hall Caine had not then written his play, The Manxman, 
for Wilson Barrett to produce and play the leading role. Some 
years later I saw the play and met Hall Caine in New York; 
the play made me cry but just what it was about I don't 

Next day we journeyed by train down into Wales. Our 
first stop was Llangollen. Arriving after dark we registered 
at the hotel and went early to bed, not knowing what the 
town was like. No scene actual or painted ever looked more 
beautiful to me than the morning view from that hotel win- 
dow. A sun-tinged river winding and laughing its rocky 
course through the town, while a street musician playing a 
pipe in the foreground gave just the right touch to this deco- 
rative bit of Wales. 

We conversed with some of the natives, and found that 
none of them could or would explain why a word spelled 
Llowainwlmjdfsllwgd was pronounced Gwillid, as we had 
been informed by non-Welshmen. Walking along a canal, 
we met up with two ragged boys who said their father 


worked in the slate mines* They asked if we would like to 
hear them sing. Of course we said yes, so they sang a folk 
song, not knowing that I was also putting them down in 
my sketch book. For singing and posing I hope that we paid 
them generously. Hardly knowing one English coin from 
another, I wasn't sure. But they went on their way happy 
with arms around each other, and it was pleasant to see. 
I do not think they expected a fee but like most Welsh 
children for centuries past, they enjoyed singing. 

Then we went to Conway Castle and to Holywell, where 
we saw the "miraculous well/' and the church nearby where 
hundreds of crutches of the cured had been left as proof. 
This part of Wales abounded in ancient abbeys and ruined 
castles. Webster said: "The trouble with our country is that 
we're shy on ruins. We ought to blow up a lot of old 
breweries, let the ivy and owls have their way, and call 
them something historic/* 

Three days in Wales were all too short for this charming 
country, but Web's time was limited and the next stop on 
our schedule was London. When we arrived there we found 
lodgings in Bloomsbury Square, in a rooming house near 
the British Museum. Being a Dickens enthusiast, Web was 
interested in searching out landmarks and streets mentioned 
in that author's novels. I was more immediately interested 
in visiting an exhibition of a hundred years of English carica- 
ture lately opened in the Royal Arcade Gallery. Dickens could 
wait. We compromised by going to the caricature exhibition 

It was inspiring, for it comprised many originals by all 
the outstanding English draftsmen from before the time of 
Hogarth. Thus I was able to study at first-hand the work 
of Rowlandson, the most prolific and versatile of British 
caricaturists; Gillray, Isaac and George Cruikshank, Leech, 
Barnard, Howitt, Thackeray, DuMaurier, Xeene, Phiz 
(Hablot K. Browne) , and various others. It was Phiz who 
illustrated most of the Dickens narrative when they first 
appeared. Of all the drawings on the walls, I was impressed 
most by those of Hogarth, Rowlandson, Gillray, George 
Cruikshank, and Frederic Barnard, who illustrated The Pil- 
grim's Progress long after Bunyan's day, and who did pic- 
tures for some of the Dickens novels. 


I thought Barnard the greatest character artist of all. And 
to think that I was face to face with Hogarth's originals, and 
his own engravings the picture propagandist for good con- 
duct and morals, a preacher with paint* Rowlandson's themes 
were much more varied. He depicted the lighter side of Lon- 
don life, the gambling parlors and the cockpits, and was 
less inclined to moralize, but not without taking notice of the 
misery all about him. Both he and Gillray were well repre- 
sented by a series of lampoons on Napoleon Bonaparte, which 
helped to deflate the little emperor* s ego and pull down his 
star. George Cruikshank's works which we saw that day cov- 
ered a wide range of subjects, done with an etching needle 
tipped with fanciful satire. I. felt that this exhibition alone 
was worth the trip across the Atlantic, for all those sad 
''Oh, why did I leave home?" days of both sea- and home- 

And now we were looking around at the more romantic 
parts of Old London. I took a good look at the sacred Bank 
of England. Moving about wherever our noses led us, we 
saw Whitehall Palace, where Charles I was tried and in front 
of which he was beheaded; Westminster Abbey, where I was 
glad to see a bust of my fellow countryman, Henry Wads- 
worth Longfellow, amid the tombs of ancient kings, St. 
Paul's Cathedral, the Royal Academy, Buckingham Palace, 
and the Houses of Parliament; Petticoat Lane, that famous 
pushcart market, where bargain-sellers of many nationali- 
ties gathered to take the public's money; the Tower of Lon- 
don; Trafalgar Square; the Thames embankment; and 
Westminster Bridge. 

Having steeped himself in Dickens lore, Clarence Web- 
ster was able to rattle off a great deal of remembered detail 
which lighted up London history for me in rich colors. 
Barnaby Radge of course occupied a much larger stage than 
any other of the Dickens novels, for it dealt with the Gordon 
Riots in the time of George III. Its central character was a 
member of Lord George Gordon's "No Popery" mob of 
60,000 persons who gathered in the open fields east of the 
city where Gordon harangued them, then marchetl them in 
divisions across Westminster Bridge, London Bridge, and 
Blackfriars Bridge. For six days and nights the mob held 
all London at its mercy, besieged Parliament, emptied the 


prisons, pillaged the homes of well-to-do Catholics, raided 
the distilleries and set them on fire. Benjamin Franklin was 
then in France as a U. S. emissary, and wrote home about 
the vast destruction. 

Most of the buildings in Whitechapel were old and doubt- 
less had been there in the days when Dickens wrote of Bill 
Sikes murdering Nancy. Men and women in those mean 

CLARENCE WEBSTER AND HIS KODAK New picture-making device 
creates a sensation in London's Whitechapel district. 

streets also seemed of an era far in the past; from their looks 
they might have been the very people who moved through 
the pages of Oliver Twist or followed Lord George Gordon. 

When the natives heard that Web was carrying a picture- 
taking machine, they surrounded us in droves. A large, slat- 
ternly woman, with her abdomen thrown out proudly, cried : 
"Tike -me, Mister!" 

Many places we came to in London were instantly con- 
nected up with Dickens' s writings by Web's extensive mem- 


ory, and some of them were known to me also not so much 
from my reading, for I cared little for novels, but from the 
hundreds of illustrations over which I had often pored. The 
whole scene was rich in picture stuff, a constantly changing 
panorama, as we pushed along. I remember the Tower, Bill- 
ingsgate Fish Market, St. Paul's Cathedral, the Marble Arch, 
Regent's Park, Cheapside, and various inns the Cheshire 
Cheese, the Blue Bull, the Maypole, the Rainbow Tavern, 
the Old Ship, the Red Lion, and Jenny's Whim. One fog- 
enveloped night Webster was sure we had found the Seven 
Dials, and I made a sketch of two outcasts, an old man and 
an old woman talking it over in the blear gas light of a foggy 
night. I showed it to Webster and he said: "Here's Dickens 
and Dore, all in one picture/' 

It may have been because I was fed on the latter' s draw- 
ings in my adolescence, that I admired his work with a kind 
of awe. And one day, when we again visited the Dore gal- 
lery on Bond Street, it was with difficulty that Web finally 
got me to leave it for other London sights. I thought then 
and still think that if ever there was a born artist it was the 
Alsatian Gustav Dore. He was an engine of energy; hand- 
some; with an Oedipus complex, but having futile love 
affairs with Adelina Patti and Sarah Bernhardt; the talk of 
Paris at twenty for his Dante, Rabelais, and Balzac illustra- 
tions, his paintings and comic drawings. At forty he had out- 
distanced all other artists, not only illustrating but enhanc- 
ing the text of his favorites in classic literature. But long 
before his fiftieth year he was a miserable melancholic, mainly, 
it is said, because the critics would not recognize him as a great 

Dore had at least one admirer who accepted all that he 
did painting, cartoons, statuary, and illustrations as be- 
yond criticism. A young man from Wisconsin who thought 
he understood him and counted him the greatest artist of his 
time. I estimated the gift of imagination in all of the arts as 
supreme. And Dore had it. Rowlandson, George Cruikshank, 
the elder Peter Breughel, Gillray, Callot, Durer, and Ober- 
lander also had it in the graphic arts, as did most of the 
Renaissance painters. But Dore's torrential ambition and his 
over-production not only killed him at fifty-one it dead- 
ened a decent appraisal of his work. He was a sensation, 


and it may have been only "for the day thereof/' Time will 
tell whether much of his work will survive. 

Thomas Nast was a great admirer of Dore. Once, so Nast 
told me, they almost met. He was going into the Bond Street 
Gallery and Dore was coming out. "He looked at me/' Nast 
said, "as if he ought to know me, and I looked at him as if 
I ought to know him and we let it go at that/' I am quot- 
ing this from a conversation I had with him when I visited 
Nast at his home in Morristown, New Jersey, in 1897. Nast 
had many Dore drawings on his walls there. He told me that 
the editors of Harper's Weekly had accused him of plagiariz- 
ing Dore's mannerisms. Anyone who looks through that 
magazine in the years from 1862 to 1870 will see early Nast 
drawings which certainly have the powerful dramatic effects 
of light and shade associated with the work of Dore. But 
Nast had an original style that no plagiaristic admiration 
could conceal. 

Being older than I, and supposedly better versed in the 
ways of the world, Web usually took the initiative in ar- 
ranging our travels. But I found it necessary to prod him 
to make sure that we didn't miss trains and got to places on 
schedule; for he had a faulty sense of time. One day, how- 
ever, he had a laugh on me when I essayed to bargain with 
the driver of a cab who had deposited us at our house in 
Bloomsbury Square after an hour of sight-seeing. He de- 
manded half a crown for the ride. That sounded like a lot 
of money, although I was muddled about money matters, 
rate of exchange, and all that. 

I objected that it was too much, and offered the man four 
shillings. He looked at me strangely, but said: "Orl right, 
Guv'ner, *av it yer own wye." 

"I'm not going to let any of these grasping Britishers 
overcharge us/' I said with a glow of victory when the cab 
had gone. 

"How much do you think half a crown is, in American 
money?" Web inquired. 

"I I don't know." 

"Just 61 cents. You've paid him 36 cents more than his 

After that I let Web handle the finances. 


Though our lodgings were near the British Museum, I 
never managed to visit that institution. It was on my list, 
but somehow I never found time to go there, and was sorry 

We had set a limit of three weeks for our stay in London. 
When I realized that we were going next into a foreign- 
language country, and knowing no word of French except 
Oar", I was a bit timid. Not to know the value of a country's 
money is bad enough, but not to know its language is to be 
helpless, I thought and I said to Web, "Maybe Fd better 
stay right here/' 

But in this mood I was forgetting my objective, which 
was to study at the Academie Julien. In a few days we were 
off for Paris by way of Dover and that churning ride across 
the English Channel. 

Chapter 14 

A~TER my illness in Paris, the journey home to Wis- 
consin, and the strawberry festival which celebrated 
my return, I found myself with time on my hands 
and the problem of how best to occupy it. First of course 
I knew I must look out for my health. I liked the walk to 
town (about a mile) , not ^>n the main road but cross-cutting 
through Ludlow's farm stopping perhaps to lie on the 
bank of the creek and sometimes sketching cows, I don't 
know of any animal more difficult to draw than a cow lying 

Arriving at the Square, I would go to our store, hang 
around for an hour and look at catalogs and other advertising 
matter that had come in the mail, help myself to candy or 
fruit, and then perhaps go upstairs to the Sentinel office, and 
chin with the editor, Charlie Booth. My itinerary also in- 
cluded the Court House and the stand in the post office where 
Chicago newspapers were sold. 

At home I did chores around the farm, whereas in 
younger days I had usually dodged them, especially when I 
was engrossed in making pictures. The whole family now 
cautioned me not to overdo, but I knew that I needed physical 
activity. I was still much underweight, and naturally my 
mother undertook to cure that with tasty home- cooked food. 

Croquet was the outdoor sport in that day, and I thought 
it fun, playing with my brother BilL Then I found a pair 
of Indian clubs in the attic, a reminder of an earlier passion of 
Billys, and I began exercising with these, doing fancy gyra- 
tions in the front yard. This was a decided mistake. Farmers 
going by in their wagons disapproved of it. Sometimes I 
could hear their acid comment; or it was relayed to me 
promptly by others. "If he was my boy/' said one of these 
critics, "he'd exercise out in the fields with a hoe/* I didn't 
want people to think I was a playboy and a loafer. I had 



been a great expense to my family; I knew that, and the 
townspeople knew it. And I did try hoeing, dutifully; but 
a couple of hours of it daily was enough to wear me out. 

So I took things more easily for a while. And as the 
weeks went by, I had to learn that lesson more than once* 
There were stretches of good weather when I would move 
along in fine fettle; then I would have days with a pain in 
my side, and a feeling of dread* Father had Dr. Loofborough, 
our family physician, come in to see me. He was cheerful 
and reassuring, "Nothing wrong with you, Art. Just a matter 
of time and patience and you'll be all right again. Get 
plenty of rest not necessarily at night, but whenever you 
feel tired and keep your mind occupied. And if what you* re 
doing seems a task, switch to something else. Don't feel that 
you have to do today anything that you can put off until 

My chief diversion, as always, was drawing pictures, and 
in running through any illustrated books or magazines that 
I could get hold of. Harper's Weekly came to us regularly, 
and I was first to look it over. At intervals all too long a 
show would come to Turner Hall, and usually I would go 
to renew my childhood; for I had been through enough 
trouble to make me feel like one who was getting along in 

Letters from Clarence Webster kept me informed about 
what the fellows I knew in the Chicago newspaper offices 
were doing, and made me lonely for the color and move- 
ment of the city. Yet when I thought of the possibility of 
going back, I knew I wasn't equal to it yet. The fine self- 
confidence that I had had for a few years while things were 
going well, was lacking now. But I was keenly interested in 
what Web wrote about preparations for a World's Fair to 
celebrate the discovery of America by one Christopher Co- 
lumbus the question of his right to the title of "discoverer" 
not having been raised in that era. The Fair would mean a 
great boom, my friend and advisor said, with the newspapers 
riding on the crest of the tide* . . * 

And now I began toying with an idea that had long 
been in the back of my mind the writing and illustrating of 
a book dealing with intimate affairs in the Hell of my own 


time, as Dante (with the subsequent pictorial aid of Dore) 
had done, I figured that Hades must have changed a good 
deal through the centuries, in view of outside influences, just 
as the upper world had changed for better or for worse. 
Looking through the Dante-Dore volume that rested on the 
parlor table, I was sure that many of the local institutions 
shown therein would now be obsolete. 

I gave attention with my drawing pen to various arrivals 
in Hell since the Florentine poet's day. New subjects of 
Satan took form on the paper before me small-town gos- 
sips, cornet-fiends, farmers who failed to blanket their horses 
in winter, chronic kickers, botch tailors, hypocritical church 
pillars, bunco-steerers, and kindred souls eligible for mem- 
bership in the society of the nether regions. 

Fitting punishments were set forth in other pictures 
quack doctors gulping down their own poison; boodle alder- 
men, each in a superheated oven; confidence-men on a sand- 
paper slide; the chronic kickers being kicked by machinery; 
the monopolists and snobbish rich sitting in frying pans over 

Many of those drawings I would now reject as inferior 
to my present standard. Yet some of them I like much, and 
would not change. One which I prize (if one may unblush- 
ingly admire a self-created work) is my portrait, drawn of 
course from imagination, of the inventor of the barbed-wire 
fence, naked except for a high silk hat and a walrus mous- 
tache sitting through eternity on his bare behind on one of 
the fences he devised. As a boy in farm country I used to see 
cattle and horses gashed and bleeding from encounters with 
those cruel steel points.* 

There was tonic for me in all this. But when I had com- 
pleted several dozen new views of Gehenna, I made no move 
to place the material with a publisher. That seemed a formid- 
able task and remembering the doctor's advice, I set the 
whole thing aside to be taken up again when I happened to 

* Until this was written I had no idea who invented barbed- wire. Then 
word came that his name was Jacob Haish, and that he died in 1926 in DeKalb, 
Illinois, only sixty miles from where I was born. He was 99 years old, and had 
made millions from his invention, the idea for which came to him around 1851, 
as he wound pasture fences with osage, which had stiff thorns. When he died 
the Illinois Historical Society described him as a "man of peace", who had lived 
to see the farmer's fence turned into a "tangle of horror and death that ran like 
a rusty snake through northern France." 


be in the proper mood. Yet I mentioned it in a letter to 
Eugene Field, and I asked him how he would like to write 
some reading matter to go with the pictures. "Don't be so 
modest/' he replied. "Write it yourself. You know a lot 
more about Hell than I do. Anybody who went through an 
illness like yours in Paris ought to have no hesitation in 
describing the tortures of Hades/' 

Webster and I had a friend in Chicago who bore the 
curious name of Wyllys S. Abbot, and who was interested in 
the stage as well as in journalism. At this point Abbot had 
what he considered a scintillating idea, about which he first 
wrote, then came up to see me. He proposed to organize a 
traveling company, of which I would be the headlines to 
edify the people of various cities and towns with a combina- 
tion of art, song, and music. He dwelt strongly upon my 
having "a talent which ought to be capitalized/' My part 
would be to draw quick sketches of well-known persons and 
familiar scenes in time and keeping with music. Webster 
knew of this stunt of mine and had told him about it. 

I was hesitant about carrying out the scheme, but Abbot 
painted its advantages in such glowing colors that I agreed 
and then we went around and enlisted Grant Weber as one of 
the company. Grant, who had been studying music in Ger- 
many, was the boy who had remembered his notes on the 
day I got stage fright and forgot mine at the Janesville 
concert when I was ten. 

Abbot promptly lined up other performers in Chicago 
and arranged for a tryout at the Press Club there. Admission 
was by invitation only, and the membership turned out in 
force. Suzanne Ella Wood, soprano, described as "a popular 
young society woman on the South Side/' sang well. Grant 
Weber played creditably; he had developed a fine technique, 
with both power and delicacy. 

We should have had an orchestra accompanying my act 
to make it effective, but I managed to get along with the solo 
support of one Signor Tomaso, a find of Abbot's, who used 
a mandolin. While he rendered appropriate selections, I drew 
quick charcoal sketches on large sheets of white paper of 
Napoleon Bonaparte, General William T. Sherman, Richard 
Wagner, General Boulanger, and Bob Ingersoll, with a pitch- 


fork tossing him into flames. I also made Devolution sketches* ' 
with a few swift strokes of my crayon. I rhythmically 
changed a watermelon into the face of a grinning darkey 
while the long-haired Signor obliged with the tune "Dancing 
in the Barn/* 

The press did well by us, so that we were able to quote 
favorable comment from the Daily News, Tribune, Inter- 
Ocean, and Herald in a leaflet "novel exhibition , . . 
pleasant entertainment . . . clever . . . artistic * . . rare finish 
and brilliancy . . . refreshing/' 

Abbot got us a booking at Plymouth Church, and here 
we added a chorus of young women* This brought us more 
publicity, and soon we were billed to appear at the Grand 
Opera House in Bloomington, Illinois, Then Abbot spread 
himself on a poster, topped by the bold-lettered words: 
"Good Morning, have you seen Art Young?" Below was 
some bragging about my facility, which, however, I was sure 
I could live up to. Abbot said: "We've got to do it that way, 
Art Everybody does it. You're not heralding your own vir- 
tues, I'm doing that, as your manager/' 

His ballyhoo knew no limit: "Art Young's political 
satires have widened and strengthened the influence of many 
journals, among them the Tribune, Dally News, and Inter- 
Ocean of Chicago, Texas Siftings and The Judge (sic) of 
New York, and the Pall Mall Budget of London. His artistic 
pencil has accompanied Lieutenant Swatka in Alaska, Rider 
Haggard in Africa, and 'Conflagration Jones' abroad, but 

"His greatest triumph is the presentation of the most 
unique entertainment ever presented to American audiences 
in which, keeping time and tune with his crayon, he presents 
to the eye an artistically beautiful or laughable sketch . . . 
suggested by the melodious strains. . . . 

"The performance is wonderful the effect is magical 
Among his spectators cheers, laughter, and tears seem at his 
bidding. Once seen, his marvelous talent is never forgotten. 
No wan has ever before displayed it/' 

We appeared in Bloomington on May 22, 1891. The 
posters had said: "While the band plays he draws a picture of 
a song/' But this must have been press agents' license, for 
no band or orchestra is mentioned on the program. Instead 
a Signor Carolla is down for a violin solo, and I seem to 


remember that he supplied the accompaniment for me. I drew 
pictures illustrative of the Marseillaise, Boulanger's March, 
Marching Through Georgia, In the Sweet Bye and Bye, 
Lohengrin's Wedding March, McGinty, Annie Rooney, We 
Won't Go Home Until Morning, Hail Columbia, Tenting 
Tonight, Nearer My God to Thee, and others. I am amused 
now at the memory of having done a portrait of Napoleon 
to illustrate the Marseillaise, but it got across with that 

Svy vy I Have you seen Art Yeafljg? 
^^i^ ^^tr JL*H^ ^^^^ 

Artistic 'and Musical 


The Bloomington Daily Leader said that "the critical 
audience applauded long and loud/' and the local corre- 
spondent of the Chicago Inter-Ocean reported the concert as 
* 'an event of much social importance" and said the audience 
was "not only large but containing the very elite of the 
city/' Some now forgotten co-worker whom I had known 
on the Daily News in Chicago, had hooked up with the 
Kansas City Star, and he wrote a story for that paper, dwell- 
ing upon my method of drawing a picture of Mr* McGinty 
in rhythm with "the orchestra" as it played the tune lament- 


ing that unfortunate worthy's descent to the bottom of 
the sea. 

With all this favorable comment, Abbot contended that 
it was time for us to move on my home town, I was reluctant 
to appear in Monroe, especially in view of my manager's 
proposal that we stage our performance as a benefit to a 
home-town boy who had come through a desperate illness. 
Finally Abbot agreed to omit any mention of a benefit from 
the advertisements, and I consented to let him go ahead with 

So he got out a large four-page leaflet, with pen-sketches 
of the principals, and with five bold cuts of myself, all alike, 
spread across one page. "Admission 35 and 50 cents. Tickets 
for sale at the Post Office and at D. S. Young & Co/s." 

June 1 1 was the date, and Turner Hall was packed. We 
gave the audience a long program for its money, and those 
present demanded more from every performer. But I was not 
happy that night. I felt that even though the ads had not 
called the show a benefit, it was generally understood that it 
was intended to be that and that perhaps all the generous 
applause was not based strictly on the merits of our offerings. 

Clarence Webster was on hand, billed as " 'Conflagration 
Jones/ the famous humorist of the Chicago Inter-Ocean/' 
and gave, in his best style, a recitation entitled "Pizen Jim/' 
with encores. Suzanne Wood, Grant Weber, and others also 
were on the program. I appeared on the stage with two sets 
of sketches, repeating what I had done in Bloomington. 

Many friends told me that the performance was a great 
success, but to me that evening was one of the worst ordeals 
I ever went through. As I stood before the people of Monroe, 
I felt that everyone there was a super-critic. I wondered 
whether my clothes were all buttoned properly, and if my 
necktie was still straight. But the music helped a lot, and I 
went through all the motions of the routine that I had re- 
hearsed so many times. 

On the leaflets heralding our Monroe concert was an an- 
nouncement of a forthcoming Chicago magazine, the 
Ahkoond of Swat, projected by Abbot, with Webster and 
myself as associate editors. This was planned as a monthly, 
the title being borrowed from George Thomas Lanigan's 
poem. In 1878, when he was on the night news desk of the 


New York World, the cable brought the bare announcement 
of the demise of a king in a small country in India, Unable 
to find data in any reference books upon which to base an 
obituary, Lanigan was impelled to write that now famous 
threnody. The first stanza read: 

What, what, what 

What's the news from Swat? 
Sad news, 
Bad news, 
Comes by the cable led 

Through the Indian Ocean's bed, 

Through the Persian Gulf, the Red 
Sea and the Med- 
iterranean he's dead: 
The Ahkoond of Swat is dead!" 

The Ahkoond of Swat started bravely, and flamboyantly, 
as such publications do. It was largely humorous, but also 
contained editorials dealing with political and other affairs, 
The first issue contained two of my Hell pictures, each oc- 
cupying half a page. Abbot predicted a great future for this 
periodical, but found it difficult to get advertising for it. 
There were only three issues. So far as I know I have the 
only copy of the Ahkoond that has survived. 

About the same time an Englishman we knew in Chicago 
launched a magazine called Push, and Web and I were in on 
the ground floor there also. But it didn't have enough push 
to pay its way, and soon gave up the ghost. 

There had been talk of our concert company going to 
Janesville and other Wisconsin cities, but after the Monroe 
appearance we all felt we had enough of it, and the plan was 

I went back to work on the Hell book, and resumed the 
physical exercises. Sometimes the old weakness recurred, but 
the intervals of well-being were much longer. My share of 
the proceeds of the concerts was enough to justify my loafing 
at home for a while longer. 

Chapter 15 

IT seems strange now that I lingered in Monroe conva- 
lescing for a year and a half but it took that long before 

I was my normal self again. Around Christmas in 1891 
I realized that I had been on the sidelines long enough; I 
must get out into the world once more. A national campaign 
was coming on; and there was likely to be a hot fight, par- 
ticularly over the tariff. I didn't know much about the tariif 
question, but I wanted to be where there was action. 

New York seemed my best bet. I still had that letter of 
introduction from Eugene Field to Colonel Cockerill of the 
World, and there was Puck, in which a good many pictures 
dealt with politics and topical affairs. There ought to be a 
place for me somewhere in the metropolis. I had been wait- 
ing for something to happen which would give me a legiti- 
mate excuse to write to eastern editors and ask if there was 
an opening. But I figured now that my chances would be 
better if I pulled up stakes and saw the editors in person. 
My strength had returned and I was a new man, ready for 

So I said goodbye again and started east, stopping in 
Chicago, of course, to look up my friends, I told Field some 
new anecdote at which he laughed, and he said: "Write it/' 
I did, and also made an illustration for it, and both were 
published next day in his column, "Sharps and Flats/* 

Dropping in at the Inter-Ocean office to see Web, I was 
hailed in friendly fashion by William Penn Nixon, the editor 
and part-owner whom I had met before. He inquired solici- 
tously about my health and plans. Then he asked how I 
would like to do political cartoons for the Inter-Ocean, which 
at that time was as influential as the Tribune. It was, in fact, 
known as "the farmers* Bible", so completely did the people 
in the rural districts read and believe in it. 

Evidently Nixon had heard about my being let out by 



the Tribune. He knew my work on the Daily News, and also 
that his managing editor, Mr, Busbey, and Webster wanted 
me on the staff. He offered me $50 a week, to start at once 
if I was ready, and it took me no more than a couple of 
minutes to say yes. This was a definite job, offered without 
being asked for, and I liked the idea of being so close to 
home, Elizabeth North was now living in Milwaukee with 
an uncle, which fact also had had something to do with my 

Webster took me out to dinner to celebrate, and then we 
went to look at the two great new skyscrapers that had 
sprung up in my absence the Masonic Temple, twenty-one 
stories high, the tallest building in the land, and the Audito- 
rium, in which were combined a magnificent opera house, 
hotel, and office floors. And with the stupendous World's 
Fair coming on in the fall, this surely was the place for me. 
I had no regret about not going on to New York. Web and 
his wife had a house out in LaGrange and next day he 
invited me to share it with them. This arrangement was 
agreeable and advantageous to me, 

Nixon wanted me to do a cartoon every day. This was 
new to the Mid-West, although Walt McDougall, whom I 
was soon to meet, had been drawing one a day for the New 
York World as early as 1884. Most of the cartoons which I 
drew for the Inter-Ocean were my own ideas, but occasion- 
ally Mr. Busbey would suggest a subject, and I would devise 
a way to present it. Usually politics was my theme, varied 
now and then, on an off day, by some travesty on prevailing 

The Inter-Ocean was Republican, and of course for tariff- 
protected industry. I had some knowledge of its past, for I 
had seen that past dug up by enemy papers. They could not 
forget that in 1880 the /-O had supported the Greenback 
party, an act classified by the righteous as involving gross 
moral turpitude, and as treason to society, business security, 
and prosperity but the farmers liked it. By 1892 the Inter- 
Ocean, like the Tribune (which once had published militant 
editorials by Henry Demarest Lloyd, Socialist) , had pulled 
in its horns, and was now generally regarded by the business 
interests as respectable and level-headed on most issues* 

I had found no reason in that day to regard money- 


reform as anything but nonsense and it was necessary for me 
to become much older to get straightened out on that* And 
I must add that in 1933, fifty-three years after the sweeping 
defeat of this movement which had reaped so much editorial 
and oratorical abuse, its supposed evil nature had been for- 
gotten, and Congress voted for the payment of government 
bonds in currency, one of the demands of the Greenback 
convention in 1880. And in the intervening years other 
planks in the Greenback platform had been embodied in 
government policies or had been generally approved in 

H. H. Kohlsaat, proprietor of a chain of busy lunch- 
rooms in the downtown district, was then principal owner of 
the Inter-Ocean. Active in Republican politics, it was well 
known that he had an ardent dislike for President Benjamin 
Harrison, who hoped to be nominated to succeed himself. 

The Republican convention was scheduled to be held in 
Minneapolis in the second week of June, 1892, and Kohl- 
saat, who had taken full charge of the newspaper, assigned 
me to cover the pictorial side. He was to be a delegate. 
Shortly before his departure for Minneapolis, he reached his 
office one morning to discover a large number of Negro men 
and women waiting to see him. All of them had seen a notice 
in Eugene Field's column in the Daily News which stated 
that Kohlsaat was going to Minneapolis to urge the nomina- 
tion of a colored man as Vice-President, and that he was 
ready to pay the expense of any Negro who would go to 
the convention to help achieve that end. Kohlsaat had long 
shown a philanthropic interest toward the black race. He 
had to explain that this announcement was a joke by a 
writer with an odd sense of humor and it was difficult for 
the hoaxed Negroes to understand that joke. Many southern 
editors quoted and no doubt believed the story invented by 

I remember no hotter place in my life than the vast 
temporary wooden building in which the Minneapolis con- 
clave was held. Rosin dripped from the new lumber of 
which it was made, and perspiration dripped from the 15,000 
or more persons in attendance. William McKinley of Ohio 
was chairman. He tried to cool himself frequently with a 
palm-leaf fan, as did everybody else. It was a fan-fluttering 


convention. The thousands of fans in evidence had been 
presented by the enterprising Kohlsaat, who had had them 
stamped with an advertisement: "Keep cool and read the 
Inter-Ocean." I was amazed at the emotional heights to which 
the delegates worked up in that atmosphere. 

The fight for the nomination was a three-cornered one, 
the main contestants beside Harrison being McKinley and 
James G. Elaine, the "Plumed Knight" of Maine. Thomas 
B. Reed, also of Maine, and Robert T. Lincoln of Illinois, 
son of Abraham, were lesser favorites in the balloting. A 
great experience for me, watching that first of many national 
conventions which I was to attend during the following 
forty years. It was spectacular drama. Elaine had been am- 
bitious for years to attain the Presidency, and the disappoint- 
ment of his followers as they saw him losing another contest 
was intense* 

I sat at the press table with Walt McDougall of the New 
York World and other cartoonists of the dailies. And what 
was most important, I met Thomas Nast, who was doing 
some special pictures for the Inter-Ocean for his friend Kohl- 
saat. Nast was then fifty-two. I introduced myself to him, 
and we talked at length. He stayed only a day* 

Listening to speeches, watching the thunderous demon- 
strations staged by the delegates, and playing a silent part 
while the correspondents and artists around me speculated 
on what was happening behind the scenes, I accumulated 
a large stock of material for use in the campaign. Here were 
the leaders and the statesmen (not always synonymous) of 
the Republican party the best minds, in action at close 

Chauncey M. Depew made a clear and forceful speech, 
proving that he was a good speaker on serious subjects as 
well as a humorist. At the end he placed Harrison in nomina- 
tion, and then the band played lustily. Several men hurried 
down the center aisle with a big portrait of the President, 
adorned with the national colors, and fastened it to a standard 
on the platform. ... In one of the demonstrations for 
Elaine, the cheering was led by the portly Thomas B. Reed, 
who for many years had been Elaine's implacable enemy; he 
had succumbed to the pressure of what is known as political 
expediency. ... A slim girl in light gray aided the Harrison 


cause with an oft-repeated Indian war-whoop, recalling the 
President's grandfather ''Old Tippecanoe." 

On the fourth day the nomination went to Harrison on 
the first ballot. He got 535 1-6 votes, while McKinley re- 
ceived 182 1-6; Blaine, 182; Reed, 4; and Lincoln L The 
Vice-Presidential choice was Whitelaw Reid, editor of the 
New York Tribune, who was chosen by acclamation, 

Two weeks later I attended the Democratic national con- 
vention at the Exposition building on the lake front in 
Chicago, at which Grover Cleveland was picked to head the 
ticket, with Adlai E. Stevenson as his running mate. ^ , , 
A clergyman with a weak voice delivered the invocation, 
amid cries of "Louder !" Before the prayer was ended the 
Horace Boies Club, which had been vociferously champion- 
ing Iowa's favorite son and Governor, started to march 
down the aisle to the platform. The club was halted and 
quieted by the police, , . . One ludicrous incident stands out 
in memory a faux pas of a German bandmaster. He was a 
capable musician, but evidently had come to this country 
some time after the Civil War, and his education in American 
history was incomplete. For just as the Georgia delegation 
was entering the hall, his band started to play Marching 
Through Georgia. Immediately there was a riotous demon- 
stration of protest among the mint-julep fanciers in Section 
K and only the fact that the band playing the hated reminder 
of General Sherman's march was in the gallery saved the 
leader and his men from physical violence* 

Tammany's representatives were drenched by a down- 
pour of rain through a hole in the roof. Richard Croker and 
Charles R Murphy were among those who got their clothes 
wet. The Tammany crowd was backing former Governor 
David B. Hill of New York, and fighting with every possi- 
ble weapon to defeat Cleveland. , . . The band got a big 
hand when it played Dixie and Ta-ra-ra boom de~ay. 

Representative William L. Wilson of West Virginia was 
the chairman, and made the keynote speech, saying: 4t Who- 
ever may be chosen leader by our party in this campaign, 
no telegram will flash across the sea from the castle of 
absentee tariff lords to congratulate him. But from the home 
of labor, from the fireside of the toiler, from the hearts of 


all who love justice and do equity, who wish and intend that 
our matchless heritage of freedom shall be the common wealth 
of all our people and the common opportunity of all our 
youth, will come up prayers for his success and recruits for 
the great Democratic host that must strike down the beast of 
sectionalism and the moloch of monopoly before we can 
ever again have a people's government run by a people's 
faithful representatives." 

That sounded reasonable to me, but I was a Republican 
employed by a Republican paper for $50 a week and not to 
be influenced by the siren song of our opponents. Neverthe- 
less I have always been sensitive to competent oratory, and 
from that year to the present time have heard all kinds 
most of it I would say, as one of Plutarch's noble Grecians 
or Romans put it, "tall and lofty like a cypress tree, but 
bearing no fruit/' 

My work at the office was a consistent day-after-day 
show-up of the iniquities of the Democrats. On all sides the 
campaign was bitter, and grew more and more vituperative 
as the months went on. 

My scrap-book for that year contains all of my cartoon 
attacks on Grover Cleveland and the Democratic party. On 
one of these the caption reads: "The political Darius Green 
and his flying machine: The greatest invention under the 
sun. 'And now/ says Darius, 'hooray for some fun/ " 
Cleveland, with makeshift wings attached to his shoulders, 
labeled: "My letter of acceptance*' . . . "Meaningless plati- 
tudes/' * . * "Speeches with no sense/' Grover stands on the 
Democratic platform, labeled: "Free trade . . No pensions 
. . . Wildcat currency . . . Fraudulent elections/' He is about 
to try a flight to the White House in the distance. 

Remembering that Tammany Hall fought tooth-and- 
nail to keep Cleveland from being nominated in Chicago, 
there is a queer ring now to another of my Inter-Ocean cat- 
toons entitled The Beggars. This depicts Joseph Pulitzer, 
with accented nose, playing a hand- organ labeled "New York 
World" and leading the Tammany tiger, which carries a 
plate in its mouth. The tiger holds in a claw a paper bearing 
the words: "We must buy votes for Cleveland and free 
trade", while Pulitzer flaunts a banner reading: "Please give 


a helping hand to the democracy of the Northwest; it is all 
going to smash/' 

Another picture was headed The Latest from the South, 
with an underline: "Adlai Stevenson is still grinding out his 
one speech to large and enthusiastic audiences/' The candi- 
date, adorned with a silk hat, stands on a tree stump grinding 
a hand-organ. Attached to his coat are ribbons labeled 
"Knight of the Golden Circle" (the Knights were a secret 
society of Democrats opposed to the Civil War) and "Green- 
back record/* His sole listener is a Negro seated on a rail fence 
eating watermelon. 

In July the story of the battle between Pinkerton thugs 
and locked-out Carnegie Steel Company workers in Home- 
stead, Pennsylvania, screamed from the front pages. When 
men who had struck against a wage- cut gathered to pre- 
vent 300 Pinkerton men on barges from landing at the 
plant, the leader of the thugs gave an order to fire and ten 
workers fell, two being instantly killed. That was the be- 
ginning of an all-day fight, in which the aroused steel workers 
met repeated attempts of the Pinkertons to land with rocks, 
bullets, dynamite, and burning oil cast adrift on the waters 
of the Monongahela River. Other men died that day on both 
sides of the battle, ten in all, with matiy wounded. 

Around three o'clock the Pinkertons ran up a white flag. 
It was shot full of holes by the enraged strikers. A second 
white flag met the same fate. But when a third one was run 
up cooler heads among the strikers agreed to a truce. With 
women and children jeering at them, the captured thugs 
marched with their hands in air several blocks to an old 
skating rink, where they were held "prisoners of war" for 
twenty-four hours. Then they were taken to the edge of 
town and told to "hit the road/' Overnight the strikers had 
burned the Pinkerton barges. Henry C. Frick, manager for 
Andrew Carnegie, demanded that Governor Pattison of 
Pennsylvania send in troops. But Pattison was slow to act. 

Of course the press dispatches were not so explicit as the 
summary of the battle that I have given here. The facts of 
the situation were slow in coming through, as they usually 
are in such situations, and the emphasis of the telegraphic 
reports was on "labor rioting/' 

Editorially the daily newspapers displayed two distinct 


attitudes toward that episode, depending on whether they 
were Republican-tariff-protection or Democratic- free trade 
organs. We of the Inter-Ocean made the most of the battle 
and its aftermath. From the dispatches I drew a front page 
cartoon-spread of the tragedy, ^and underneath it the editor 
put this caption: 'Who's to blame?*' 

I note three cartoons that I drew in the next few days. 
One has this underline: "What a regiment if all the men 
who have made asses of themselves in the Homestead riot 
case would fall in line/' The picture shows several figures 
each with a label: Governor Pattison, "delay in calling out 
militia"; Palmer, "incendiary speech"; Voorhees, "wild 
talk"; a donkey-headed "agitator"; two more donkey heads 
and another down a long line labeled "free trade editor" 
* . . The second picture portrays Public Opinion in feminine 
personification delivering a mandate to Governor Pattison: 
"Write that letter!" with an explanatory label: "Letter order- 
ing out the militia in the interest of law and order." Below 
was the added comment: "And he wrote it/' 

My third pictorial preachment on Homestead is headed: 
"Dana Shames the Small Democratic Editors/' The cartoon 
depicts the New York editor in a silk hat pointing an ad- 
monitory finger at a group of boys as they stand abashed at 
the foot of a scarecrow labeled: "Homestead riot scare to 
frighten voters." Underneath is a long quotation from Dana's 
paper, the New York San, which was Democratic but not 
wedded to the idea of free trade; thus: 

"We regret to notice that some (nearly all) of our Demo- 
cratic contemporaries are treating the Homestead incident in 
a partisan fashion, for which there is no excuse* They assume 
that because Mr. Andrew Carnegie and his associates at 
Homestead have been engaged in an industry protected by the 
tariff, and because a dispute as to wages has arisen between 
the employers and employed, protection is responsible for 
the murders and mischiefs. ... If strikes were never heard 
of in unprotected industries; if, in fact, the greatest strikes 
in the country had not occurred in the unprotected indus- 
tries, like the steam railroads and the horse railroads; if free 
trade England were not a country of desperate strikes, and 
if these facts were not known to everybody with education 
enough to read large print, these assumptions might be worth 


contradicting. As the case is, they are so far fetched and 
wildly absurd that we fear they will bring discord upon the 
Democrats in the national campaign/' 

John P. Altgeld, who had been chief justice of the Cook 
County Superior Court, was running for the governorship 
on the Democratic ticket. He was anathema to the Inter- 
Ocean, as probably any Democratic candidate for that chair 
would have been then. I look back over the anti-Altgeld 
cartoons in my scrapbook now with a deep sense of shame. 
Two cited here will be sufficient to typify my assaults upon 
that clean man's character in those far-off days of youth. 

One is headed: "Eighty Per Cent Wrong/' and under- 
lines quote the S treat or Free Press as saying: "Judge Altgeld' s 
record on the bench is about the worst in modern history. 
Ten cases were appealed from Altgeld's court, eight of which 
were reversed on account of error by the Judge. He couldn't 
have been wrong oftener if he had tried/' In this picture 
Altgeld is seen leaning on "his barrel" (then the political 
symbol of wealth) which is labeled "Wrong Argument/* 
and a string is fastened to one of his legs, which is being 
pulled by Mike McDonald, political boss. Back of Altgeld 
on a wall are numerous signs: "Says the wrong things at the 
wrong time . . . The wrong kind of man to nominate for 
Governor . . . Does wrong by his poor tenants . . . Combs 
his hair the wrong way . . . Makes his tenants pay in gold 
coin only, which is wrong . . . Has wrong views on the 
labor question." 

That was how I was making good with the Inter-Ocean 
and the Republican party. It seems unbelievable at this dis- 
tance that we assailed a candidate because he combed his 
hair the wrong way, but that is a part of the record of 
mud-slinging in American politics. And I was a participant 
on the front page of a leading newspaper. 

But for sheer abuse the following is perhaps the prize 

"Shades of Departed Governors, Has It Come to This?" 
Shades of Yates (1862) and Edwards (1812), tall men, 
stand beside the Illinois executive chair, while Altgeld, shown 
as a diminutive figure, is climbing onto the dais with his 
hands on the chair-arm. On his back is a keg labeled "$$$ 
Barrel to Buy Votes/' and on the floor are papers with these 


inscriptions: "Attempted robbery of Chicago * . . Slander of 
state institutions . . . Alliance with thugs and bum element/' 

Altgeld had attacked the prison contract labor system, 
and he had charged Governor Joe Fifer's administration with 
gross extravagance, alleging, for instance, that there were 
institutions in Illinois where "it took $600,000 to pay and 
keep employees to expend $400,000 on the inmates of the 
institution/' In answer the Republican press, with the Inter- 
Ocean among the loudest, denounced Altgeld as a liar with- 
out conscience. The editorial writers assailed his charges as 
"the deliberate and malicious falsehoods of a brazen dema- 
gogue/' they called him an Anarchist, a gold-bug, a fomenter 
of "foreign know-nothingism," and asserted that he was 
"never in the army at all!'* 

In all this smoky conflict I followed the Inter-Ocean's 
editorials and trusted the editor who had given me my job 
and H. H. Kohlsaat, the owner. They were mature men and 
as such I felt ought to know the truth* The Inter-Ocean 
called itself a paper for the home, and it was careful not to 
print anything except what was "moral/' Sometimes, it is 
true, I detected flaws in the Republican armor; but I con- 
soled myself with the thought that no human institution was 
perfect. Perhaps politics was just sordid, unpleasant, and a 
necessary evil; when I got away from the office at night I 
was glad to forget about the campaign. 

Despite all our bitter opposition Cleveland was elected 
President and Altgeld Governor of Illinois, and afterward 
the Inter-Ocean had the federal and state administrations to 
attack instead of mere candidates. We got excited once about 
the hardships of life at West Point, which I deplored in a 
cartoon called "Straining at a Gnat and Swallowing a 
Camel/' This depicts the Democratic Congress swallowing 
a camel labeled "Southern harbors appropriations/' with an 
underline: "Not one cent for soap at West Point, but millions 
for the improvement of Southern harbors/' 

We found time, too, to hit at the misdeeds of the Demo- 
cratic municipal administration. In one picture entitled "A 
Ruler Afraid to Rule," a feminine Chicago points to "Gamb- 
ling dens running wide open/* and Mayor Hopkins replies: 
44 You' 11 have to speak to the chief of police about that/' 
. . . John Burns, British labor leader, came to the city, 


and I quoted him in a cartoon as saying "Your streets are 
vile, horrible!" and city contractors, inspectors, and sub- 
contractors answering: "They suit us, see?" 
So ran my first year on the Inter-Ocean. 

When time had moved along to 1915 the State of 
Illinois got around to erecting a monument to Altgeld's 
memory in Chicago. Writing then in the Metropolitan Maga- 
zine, for which I was covering Washington, I apologized 
for having ridiculed the courageous little Governor in my 
adolescence as a cartoonist* 

"Almost every act of Altgeld's offended the capitalist 
powers of the state and nation," I recalled. "He was an 
idealist, therefore an 'insane statesman/ He believed in the 
rights of labor, was a friend of common people, and showed 
his friendship by his deeds. . * . 

"I thought he must be a political Beelzebub because re- 
spectable, well-dressed people said so. I soon learned, how- 
ever, that well-dressed, respectable judgement is not reliable; 
indeed, it is generally wrong." 

Chapter 1 6 

ONE of my chief compensations in working on the 
Inter-Ocean was that I got to know Thomas Nast 
intimately. Long a friend of Mr. Kohlsaat, the pub- 
lisher, he had come to Chicago to act as judge in a contest 
staged by the paper for a drawing which would best sym- 
bolize the spirit of that fast- growing city. He had cut loose 
from Harper's Weekly at the end of 1886 because of the 
limitations which George William Curtis, the editor, put upon 
his work. After the contest in Chicago, he stayed on to do 
some special cartoons for a bigger and better Inter-Ocean 
-which would soon make other newspaper editors in the Mid- 
dle West sit up and take notice. 

In that autumn of 1892 the Inter-Ocean made its big 
forward step.* It had installed the first color press in the 
country, and began to print a colored supplement with its 
Sunday issue. In this Nast and I were presently appearing 
with full-page pictures, and it was gratifying to see my 
name featured in advertisements with that of the artist I had 
admired so much in the dream-days back on the farm. 

While color-printing has of course been much improved 
in forty-seven years, the productions of that first color press, 
viewed in copies of the supplement which I have preserved, 
compare favorably with the fast color printing seen in comic 
supplements and feature sections of newspapers today. Our 
Sunday circulation was immediately increased by many thou- 
sands, and the editors of the other seven-day papers were 
given something serious to think about. 

* The New York World has often erroneously been given credit for produc- 
ing the first colored supplement. Walt McDougall, in his autobiography, gave 
the date of that "first'* in the World as September, 1893; while a New York 
City publication. Highlights of the Nineties, timed simultaneously with the 
opening of the 1939 World's Fair, reproduced an Atlantic Garden Saturday 
Night Scene from the World of November 19, 1893, calling it "the first page 
of color appearing in any American newspaper." But I have pages from the 
Chicago Inter-Ocean colored supplement dated as early as September 18, 1892. 



Nast's cartoons in the supplement were usually political. 
Mine dealt with various topics in addition to politics. One 
was entitled "Let Uncle Sam Be the Arbitrator/' and por- 
trayed our venerable red-white-and-blue relative making 
Capital and Labor shake hands. Another was called 'In Dark- 
est Chicago/' showing crime slinking along on badly lighted 
streets. Occasionally I illustrated feature articles, such as 
"Highwaymen of the Past." 

That then marvelous color press had been acquired at 
a propitious time, enabling the Inter-Ocean to celebrate im- 
pressively the dedication exercises at the World's Columbian 
Exposition, which took place in October, For more than a 
year an army of workingmen had been speeding the con- 
struction of the great edifices, lagoons, waterways, islands, 
fountains, remodeled landscape, roads, and docks to com- 
prise the dazzling White City which would commemorate the 
landing of Columbus on American soiL 

All Chicago's people seemingly caught the spirit of that 
daring enterprise, and felt its thrill, as did the multitudes 
across the hinterland for it marked the rebirth of a com- 
munity that needed to cast off a dingy skin. Architects with 
soaring imagination from various cities, engineers with un- 
fettered vision, sculptors and painters competent to work on 
a scale of immensity until then unheard of, were given leave 
to work out their dreams, with ample money and materials, 
the one handicap being the pressure of a time-schedule. 

There was a glow of idealism about the rising of all 
that wonderland; at least so I, and most people, thought. 
I did not know that hundreds of workers on the Fair were 
injured in accidents due to the speed-up, nor that eighteen 
of them died from those injuries in the first few months. 
Such unfortunate circumstances were always kept in the 

It was inspiring to do pictures of those monumental 
palaces and pavilions as their towers and domes rose against 
the sky. Drawing now for reproduction in much larger space 
than ever before, I could see my drfftsmanship definitely im- 
proving. I found myself taking more pains with this work 
which would appear in color than with the daily front-page 
political cartoons which I had learned to turn out between 



4 and 6 p.m., and which were done conscientiously enough 
in that limited time, but which had become routine exercises. 

Other memorable things were happening that year. John 
L. Sullivan lost the heavy-weight championship to Jim Cor- 
bett in New Orleans* Nancy Hanks did a mile trot in 2:04. 
Work was begun on the Drainage Canal, to be followed in 
time by the changing of the current in the Chicago River, so 
that it would flow away from Lake Michigan instead of into 
it and no longer pollute the source of the city's drinking 
water supply. And prominent Baptists dedicated the first 
building of the University of Chicago, toward which John 
D. Rockefeller had given a small fortune. 

Meanwhile the fighting in the national political campaign 
steadily grew hotter. Backing the Republican candidates, 
President Benjamin Harrison and Whitelaw Reid, the Inter - 
Ocean was straining every sinew to defeat Cleveland and 
Stevenson. The Populists, too, were putting on a campaign, 
and were 'Viewed with alarm" and denounced frequently 
by the press serving the old parties. There were Prohibition 
and Social Labor tickets in the field also, but to the press in 
general they didn't seem worth worrying about. 

I did at least one full-page cartoon in the Sunday supple- 
ment assailing Cleveland for his free trade doctrines, and in 
the week-day issues I kept throwing pictorial shafts at all 
the vulnerable spots in the Democratic party's anatomy. One 
of the daily lampoons is titled "Election Day." A character 
identified as Demented Democracy is speaking to another 
labeled Voter. The former is a frowsy man standing along- 
side a downcast horse called Wildcat Banks, leading him with 
a strap bearing the words Free Trade. Mr. Voter is on a 
sprightly steed named National Banks and Protection, with a 
paper in his pocket headed Sound Money. Demented Democ- 
racy is saying: "Don't you want to change?*' and Mr. Voter 
says: "Not today." 

Reading the Inter-Ocean's dispatches from the political 
battle fronts, to the exclusion of opposition newspapers, one 
would gather that only the Republicans had any real chance 
of winning. All over the country, it appeared, the voters were 
lining up in huge numbers for the party of Abraham Lincoln. 

But on election night the sad news came that the Demo- 
crats had run away with the apple-cart. Cleveland and 


Stevenson had won 277 electoral votes, while Harrison and 
Reid got only 145, and the Populists (first minority party 
ever to poll any electoral votes, boasted of 22) . Six states 
gave the Populists a majority, and their national total was 
1,065,191 votes. The new alarm at this, voiced now by both 
the Republican and Democratic press, was probably genuine. 
Headed by James Baird Weaver, who had been the party's 
Presidential nominee in 1880, when the Inter-Ocean had 
flown its banner, the Populists had waged a determined cam- 
paign on a platform demanding government ownership of 
railroads and telegraph, telephone, and express systems; free 
coinage of silver at the ratio of sixteen to one; the initi- 
ative and referendum; restricted immigration; an eight-hour 
workday; and election of U. S. Senators by direct vote of the 

Altgeld and the whole state Democratic ticket also had 
won, swept into office despite the supposedly strong Repub- 
lican press. The Governor-elect had gone into half a hun- 
dred counties meeting farmers, miners, and small-town peo- 
ple on their own ground, discussing their problems, talk- 
ing their own language with them, rather than making many 
public speeches. His editorial foes of course looked askance 
at all this, harpooning him for his "political handshake*' and 
giving the impression that there was some skullduggery afoot 
when a gubernatorial candidate came down from the plat- 
form and shook a voter's hand when that hand was grimy 
with coal dust or locomotive oil. This close contact with the 
plain people by Altgeld was combined with attacks on the 
trusts, and with exposures of Republican extravagance in 
state institutions and of the dark abuses under the system 
which permitted the contracting of convict labor in the 
prisons. f 

That defeat at the polls saddened the Inter-Oceans 
official family on election night and next day, though the 
gloom quickly wore off. Officially the paper foresaw calamity 
for the nation under Democratic auspices, but privately the 
editors didn't seem to mind. And sometimes I was moved 
to wonder about the consistency of a newspaper's emotions 
and actions during such a campaign. Was Cleveland actually 
the national menace that the Inter-Ocean called him? I had 
seen and sketched him when I was on the Daily News, and 


he seemed a decent, level-headed individual And was Alt- 
geld truly muddle-brained and Mike McDonald's tool? I 
noted that despite the detailed instructions given by William 
Penn Nixon for cartoons charging the Democratic ticket 
leader with manifold villainies, Nixon, after working hours, 
would readily concede that Altgeld had numerous good 


I could see that working on a daily newspaper when a 
campaign was on was a good deal like being a soldier in a 
war, on one side or the other. One's personal attitudes, if one 
had any attitudes, were shelved for the time being if they 
happened to run counter to those of the publication on which 
one was employed. True, there were men on the Inter-Ocean, 
as there had been on the Daily News, who frequently damned 
the owners for their policies, but kept on working for them 
just the same and never walked in and expressed their opin- 
ions to Melville E. Stone or H. H. Kohlsaat. No more did L 
All of us obeyed. 

When the smoke from the political artillery had drifted 
away, I felt it was time for me to do something tangible 
about getting my Hell book published* It had been completed 
weeks before, save for a few finishing touches which I attended 
to over the next week-end. When Eugene Field advised that 
I do my own narrative for that volume, his opinion of me 
as a writer was better than mine. He had seen few samples 
of my word-handling in the infrequent news stories I had 
written for the Daily News city desk when dealing pictorially 
with some event hardly enough to judge by. But anyway, 
I had taken his advice. 

Pictures and text totaled only 100 pages, but that seemed 
enough to do justice to the subject in that day, and Field, 
Webster, and others were enthusiastic over my manuscript. 
There were only a handful of book publishers in Chicago, 
and I got a ready acceptance from the first one to which I 
went. Francis J. Schulte and Company brought out the first 
edition in time for the Christmas trade. 

Hell Up to Date was the title of that edition, purporting 
to deal with The reckless journey of R. Palasco Drant, spe- 
cial correspondent through the infernal regions, as recorded 
by himself: with illustrations by Art Young. I dedicated this 


highly moral work to Clarence Webster "in the hope that it 
will make him a better man/' The frontispiece was a full- 
page portrait of the author with bandaged head, standing 
alongside a bust of the first explorer of the flaming empire. 
Farther on was another portrait labeled "Mr. Dante of Italy/' 
showing him with a generally damaged and discouraged look 
as if he had just had a run-in with a denful of devils. Of 
all the pictures in that report of my initial survey of Gehenna, 
that one of the pride of the Alighieri family gave me the most 
satisfaction. The cover title was in bold red ink on black. 

Issued at $1 and displayed by stores, news-stands, and 
train butchers, the book's immediate sales appeared brisk, but 
the cash returns to the author-artist were disappointing. My 
royalty checks amounted to only about $500, and I had 
paid for the engravings. Schultes* put out another edition for 
the Canadian trade, in paper covers, for 50 cents. There also 
was a de luxe edition with the title softened to Hades Up to 

But if my profits on that venture were small, it did not 
diminish my interest in the natural history and the social and 
economic conditions in the woeful region farthest down, and 
I returned to the subject in after-years. 

I sent a copy of my book to A. B. Frost, then living in 
Convent, New Jersey. I had never met Mr. Frost, but had 
long followed his work in the delineating of American types, 
particularly rural, in the magazines. He replied at some 
length, despite the fact that his eyes were giving him trouble 
and limiting his correspondence. There was great encourage- 
ment for me in these words: 

"I think you have a strong and decided talent for carica- 
ture, and what is particularly refreshing in these times, your 
work is your own; and does not remind one instantly of 
some one else's. I like your feeling fpr movement and action 
very much/' 

Governor Altgeld was ill when inaugurated in January; 
he managed, however, to go through his speech; then was 
taken hastily to his new home in Springfield and went to bed, 
where he stayed for weeks. The strain of travel and battle 
had told heavily on his slight physique, There were hints 


in the air that he might not survive, and the newspapers 
ceased firing at him. 

After President Cleveland had been inaugurated we shot 
an occasional shaft in his direction; but there was less reason 
now than during the campaign. Almost immediately he with- 
drew from the Senate the Hawaii annexation treaty which 
his predecessor had signed after "an uprising by Americans 
and the better class of natives/' and offered to restore the 
deposed queen, Liliuokalani, on conditions that she rejected. 
That gave us an excuse for a cartoon headed "Another Ver- 
sion of the Song/' with this underline: " 'Two little boys 
that are blue' black and blue/' This was a take-off on the 
then popular ballad, "Two Little Girls in Blue/' The boys 
in the picture are named Grover and Walt, the latter being 
Walter Gresham, Secretary of State, Both are crying, and 
holding their behinds, as Uncle Sam leaves after whipping 
them with a bunch of birch rods labeled Public Criticism. 
Above them is a bust of the Queen marked Lil, with tears 
flowing from her eyes. 

Interest among all the city's newspapers that spring 
shifted largely to the opening of the World's Fair, scheduled 
for May 1. We of the Inter-Ocean staff were called upon fre- 
quently to visit the transformed Jackson Park, where the 
magic white metropolis was being rushed to completion* New 
wonders greeted us each time we went. By virtue of a com- 
mand from the board of aldermen, the Illinois Central rail- 
road, which would carry the bulk of the traffic to the Fair, 
was elevating its tracks, and thus would increase its speed 
and eliminate the danger to life and limb at grade crossings. 
The hotels and restaurants were preparing for the expected 
influx of people from all over the world, and real estate 
values were booming. 

On Sunday, April 30, Page 1 of our Sunday supplement 
featured a colored sketch by Nast showing the world's na- 
tions, personified in the figures of John Bull and the other 
males which we cartoonists used as typical, romping around 
a May Pole in honor of the lovely feminine figure of Chicago, 
who bore the magic slogan "I Will" upon her bodice. In 
Nast's bold style, the picture bore the words: "Opening Day 
of the World's Fair/' 


Into the vast Court of Honor poured some 450,000 men, 
women and children, who presently were milling on rain- wet 
ground to hear if they could the words of the notables on the 
platform flanking the east wall of the Administration Build- 
ing. Here stood President Cleveland, members of the Spanish 
nobility, Mrs. Potter Palmer, Governor Altgeld, General 
Nelson A. Miles, Mayor Harrison, and executives of the Fair. 

The President whose election the Inter-Ocean had so bit- 
terly fought touched an electric key, and all the silent waiting 
machinery of the Exposition sprang into life flags were un- 
furled on all those gleaming palaces, crystal water flowed 
from every fountain, heroic statues were automatically un- 
veiled, cannon roared from warships out in the lake. 

And what astonishing things to tell of to faraway rela- 
tives or friends in letters, or for the people in the country 
towns to read of in their newspapers 633 acres in the Fair 
grounds, four times the area used by the Paris Exposition, 
which I had seen in 1889; the Ferris Wheel,, 250 feet tall; 
the Palace of Manufactures, 1,687 feet long by 787 feet wide; 
the Palace of Fine Arts, crowded with aesthetic treasures; the 
magnificent searchlight illumination of the Grand Basin; the 
replicas of Columbus's three caravels; the reproduction of 
the Convent of La Rabida, where the explorer applied for 
alms before starting for the Indies; the Venetian gondolas, 
with singing Italian pole-men, on the canals and lagoons; 
the Midway Plaisance, with its Street in Cairo and undulant 
dancing girls; the lovely tall German building; the Japanese 
and Javanese villages; and many scenes that typified other 
far-off countries. , . Opposite the Fair grounds, on the 
west side of Stony Island avenue, Buffalo Bill's Wild West 
had set up its weather-beaten tents. There was no room for 
that show within the Exposition confines. As a supplemental 
attraction, it prospered. 

And what do you think I liked best? The art galleries, 
of course the native art of many countries. But for sheer 
fascination the Javanese village and its theatre of native actors 
got to me strongest. And next in appeal to me was Robert 
Burns' s home a replica, I believe, of the simple house in 
which many of his familiar poems were written or inspired. 

Almost every week during the ensuing five months there 
were pictures of some phase of the Fair to be drawn. Those 


assignments were pleasant; for me they amounted to a liberal 
education in the history, productions, possessions, and cus- 
toms of the world's peoples. It gave me an illuminating in- 
sight also into the habits of human beings, when gathered in 
crowds* Among the masses of visitors there was a certain 
curious madness which I too have felt when in some in- 
triguing gallery or museum the tendency to try to see every- 
thing there in a single day or hour. Actually it would have 
required six months of constant attendance to have seen all 
that was shown at the Exposition of 'Ninety-three. And to 
me those glorious edifices gave a lift of spirit which I had 
not felt at the Paris Fair. 

Chapter 1 7 

WILLIAM PENN NIXON was chairman of the 
Amnesty Association, which for three years had 
been striving to obtain pardons or commutations 
of sentences for the three Anarchists in the Joliet penitentiary. 
It will be remembered that Fielden and Schwab were serving 
life terms, while Neebe had been sentenced to fifteen years. 
Union labor was strongly represented in the association's 
membership of 100,000 in Chicago, but it also embraced 
numerous prominent business and professional men. 

Countless Chicagoans, including individuals in high 
places, had come to doubt the justice of the verdict which 
had sent four other defendants to the gallows and led one to 
suicide. One of various reasons for this doubt was a charge 
made by former Police Chief Ebersold, in an interview in 
the Daily News, that Captain Michael X Schaack had manu- 
factured a great deal of the evidence against the Anarchists. 
That interview was published in 1889, a year after Melville 
Stone had sold his interest in the paper to Victor Lawson. 

'It was my policy," Ebersold said, "to quiet matters 
down as soon as possible after the 4th of May. The general 
unsettled state of things was an injury to Chicago. On the 
other hand, Captain Schaack wanted to keep things stirring. 
He wanted bombs to be found here, there, all around, every- 
where. I thought people would lie down and sleep better if 
they were not afraid that their homes would be blown to 
pieces any minute. But this man Schaack, this little boy who 
must have glory or his heart would be broken, wanted none 
of that policy. . . . After we got the Anarchist societies 
broken up, Schaack wanted to send out men to again organize 
new societies right away. . . . After I heard all that, I began 
to think there was perhaps not so much to all this Anarchist 
business as they claimed, and I believe I was right/' 



And the Herald had revealed, in a front-page story which 
no one took the trouble to deny, that a secret organization of 
300 capitalists, formed immediately after the Haymarket 
tragedy, had for five years contributed from $50,000 to 
$140,000 annually to the police "to crush anarchy in Chi- 
cago/' In 1891 this organization ceased these contributions, 
according to the Herald, because it had reason to believe that 
"anarchy no longer exists/' The finance committee which 
had disbursed the money gave out no more, but issued a 
report in which it averred that $487,000 had been expended 
and that "all we had to show for it was the hanging of four 
men, the horrible self-murder of one, the imprisonment of 
three others, and the unearthing of an alleged plot against 
Grinnell (the prosecutor of the Anarchists) and Judge 

An unnamed "attorney of great prominence/' who had 
furnished the Herald with the information on which its story 
was based, declared that a police raid on a meeting of 
Arbeiter-Zeitung stockholders in Griefs Hall "was simply a 
scheme to show men who had been putting up money to 
keep down Anarchist movements that the followers of Par- 
sons and Spies were not yet dead/' 

A strong showing had been made to Governor Fifer that 
no evidence in the trial had connected Neebe in any way with 
the Haymarket bomb. But Fifer had refused to act, although 
it was understood that he leaned toward clemency for Neebe. 
Pressure of the opposition forces was too heavy* 

Altgeld's election gave fresh impetus to the activities of 
the Amnesty Association. And shortly after the new Governor 
rose from his sick bed a petition for pardons for all three 
prisoners, signed by more than 60,000 Illinois citizens, was 
placed before him. The top signer was Lyman X Gage, 
financier, who later served as Secretary of the Treasury under 
McKinley, Two other leading Chicagoans, who with Gage 
had been active in circulating that plea, were aged Lyman 
Trumbull, friend of Lincoln, and E, S. Dreyer, a banker who 
had been foreman of the grand jury that indicted the Anarch- 
ists. Many of Chicago's men of affairs joined in the appeal 
financiers, railroad heads, merchants, lawyers, physicians, 
clergymen. Governor Altgeld said he would weigh the argu- 


ments in the petition carefully, and would get the trial record 
and study it. 

While that study was in progress the Century Magazine 
for April came out with a long article by Judge Gary 
upholding the Haymarket trial verdict and defending his 
own procedure. Champions of the Anarchists promptly an- 
swered Gary, in pamphlets and magazine articles, assail- 
ing his method of reasoning and accusing him of bias. Other 
individuals took up verbal cudgels in the judged behalf. 

There was no police interference when 8,000 persons 
assembled in Waldheim cemetery on Sunday, June 25, to 
witness the dedication of a bronze-and-marble monument 
over the graves of the four hanged men and Lingg. Justice in 
bronze, with no bandage over her eyes, is seen laying a 
laurel wreath upon the head of a worker who has gone down 
fighting for his kind. 

Out of a clear sky next day came a bolt which rocked the 
nation the announcement that Governor Altgeld had par- 
doned Fielden, Schwab, and Neebe, and that they would all 
be out of prison that afternoon. Not only did he exonerate 
and free those three men, but he issued an accompanying 
statement 17,000 words long in which he demonstrated 
clearly that the jury had been packed, and pointed out that 
the prosecution had never established who threw the bomb, 
and that there was no evidence that any of the defendants 
ever had any connection whatever with the person who did 
throw it, nor that he had acted on any advice given by them. 
Emphasizing the charges that Judge Gary had been preju- 
diced against the defense, he said he did not care to discuss 
that feature of the case "any further, because it is not neces- 

Newspapers all over the country, regardless of political 
affiliations, denounced Altgeld for this action. Among the 
most bitter were the New York World, Times, Evening Post, 
Herald, Sun, and Tribune; the Philadelphia Press; the Wash- 
ington Post; the Louisville Courier- Journal; the St. Louis 
Globe-Democrat; and the Chicago Tribune and Inter-Ocean. 

Editorial prose was not sufficient to express the New York 
Sun's emotions. It published an apostrophe "To Anarchy " 
which ended with this stanza: 


O wild Chicago, when the time 

Is ripe for ruin's deeds, 
When constitutions, courts, and laws 

Go down midst crashing creeds, 
Lift up your weak and guilty hands 

From out the wreck of States, 
And as the crumbling towers fall down 

Write ALTGELD on your gates! 

All the old derogatory epithets were hurled, and others 
added. The little man with the close-cropped hair and beard 
was portrayed as an Anarchist himself, a bomb-thrower, an 
enemy of society, un-American, a reckless demagogue, a 
wrecker of democracy. In one town he was hanged in effigy. 
There was talk of starting a movement for his impeachment. 
Many of the newspapers took umbrage at Altgeld' s implied 
criticism of Judge Gary, The Inter-Ocean was one of these; 
conceding that the Governor was within his legal rights, it 
called his arraignment of Gary "outrageous/' This was the 
paper's official attitude; William Penn Nixon, its editor, 
obviously thought otherwise* Judge Gary and Prosecutor 
Grinnell declined to comment on the pardons. It was notice- 
able also that Altgeld made no answers to any of the wide- 
spread condemnation of his course* He had said all that he 
had to say in the pardon message, and he stood his ground, 

I was beginning to admire him now, though I was not 
yet ready to admit that we were all wrong in our crusade 
against his policies during the campaign, I could see that even 
with all the new cannonading against him, his silence gave 
him the advantage. And there were a few voices sounding 
which called the Governor brave. 

Mayor Carter H. Harrison* s paper, the Chicago Times, 
held that "Governor Altgeld has done no more than right in 
giving them freedom for the rest of their days/' The Chicago 
Globe was confident that time would prove the "righteous- 
ness and justice" of the pardons. 

It took years, however, before my mind got straightened 
out on the question of where justice really lay in the Hay- 
market case. That mental clearance had to wait until after 
Altgeld died, as this narrative will show* 

Chapter 18 

THERE was an uproar that summer over the question of 
the World* s Fair remaining open on Sundays, Church 
people, reformers, the Fair directors, the courts, and 
Congress were all involved in this momentous issue. Congress 
had originally specified that the Fair grounds should be closed 
on the Sabbath, in authorizing the selling of Columbian 
souvenir coins to the tune of $2,500,000 to help cover Ex- 
position costs* Facing a heavy deficit, the heads of the Fair 
figured that a seven-day operating week would be a life-saver. 
Their lawyers found a technical reason for contending that 
the Congressional stipulation was not binding. Fearing a de- 
ficit, the Fair officials got around that as business men 
usually do and Sunday opening was announced, to the 
horror of the moralists. 

Meanwhile the reformers, not to be outdone, obtained 
an injunction against Sunday operation of the Fair. It was 
contested in the district courts and the ban was upheld. A 
higher court reversed the decision. The Fair was now running 
seven days a week, attendance increased daily, and the moral 
issue was lost in the shuffle. 

I continued to do large pictures of Exposition scenes for 
the Inter-Ocean supplement of the Eskimo Village, and of 
the buildings and people representing various states and coun- 
tries. Countless unique objects lent themselves to news stories 
and illustrations the Liberty Bell, borrowed from Phila- 
delphia, the long-distance telephone to New- York, LaFay- 
ette's sword, Miles Standish's pipe, John Alden's Bible, the 
Japanese tea house on Wooded Island, a Bolivian Indian 25 
years old and nine feet ten inches tall, and the moving side- 
walk, 4,500 feet long. 

There were elements of humor also in the scene. Near 
the Connecticut building wooden nutmegs were sold as 
souvenirs at five cents each, a little joke harking back to the 



days of an ingenious swindle in spice selling by Yankee ped- 
dlers in that state. But the demand for the wooden souvenirs 
was greater than the supply, and when these ran out the 
vendors took to selling real nutmegs to the unsuspecting 
public, representing that they were wooden. This hoax pres- 
ently being discovered by some one who thoughtfully grated 
a souvenir to see what kind of wood it was made of, pur- 
chasers now began clamoring indignantly for the return of 
their money on the ground that they had been defrauded. 

The incident furnished a nice illustration of real and 
artificial values. Bona fide nutmegs were then worth perhaps 
two for a cent at retail; the wood in a synthetic nutmeg 
was worth much less, but the five-cent "value of such a sou- 
venir was built up by the cost of the labor involved in shaping 
and coloring the facsimile, the chuckle in the thought of how 
the old-time peddlers put it over on customers that would 
never see them again, and the novelty of the 1893 buyers 
having something odd to talk about with their friends. 

Downtown, for years before the World's Fair was 
thought of, there was a popular department store called The 
Fair. This four-story emporium extended from State Street 
to Dearborn Street on Adams. As I write, forty-six years 
later, it has grown to much larger proportions. But in that 
day, it was something to see for its vast display of goods. 

A farmer from Wisconsin, looking up and down State 
Street, one day in 1893, asked a passerby: "Say, Mister, kin 
you tell me where's the Fair?" The one spoken to thought 
he meant the big store, which was near by, and pointed it 
out to him. 

The farmer spent three days looking around this estab- 
lishment, from kitchen utensils in the basement to furniture 
on the top floor and back again, several times. Then he re- 
turned home* The natives of course asked him how he liked 
the World's Fair, 

"I enjoyed every minute of it" he said. 

Pressed for specific information about the Ferris Wheel, 
the Midway, and the ostrich farm, his mind was blank. 
Though he had been looking at the wrong Fair, it was good 
enough for him. 

Visitors from the country at that time flocked to the 
Palmer House to see an exhibition of money which was 


regarded by many of them as one of the world's wonders. 
In the barber shop of that hotel the marble floor was im- 
bedded with hundreds of silver dollars. Potter Palmer, the 
owner, once said that that was the most profitable form of 
advertising he had ever tried. 

On Wabash Avenue, near my first lodging house, "John 
Brown's fort" was on exhibition* This was the fire-engine 
house in which Brown and his army of twenty-two men 
barricaded themselves when they raided the town of Harper's 
Ferry, Virginia. Many bullet holes were in its walls, made by 
the state militia in its siege. Some years later Kate Field, the 
lecturer and journalist of Washington, D. C, raised money 
to have the "fort" taken back to Harper's Ferry, where it 
stands on the grounds of Storer College, a school for Negroes. 

October 9, anniversary of the great fire in 1871, was set 
apart as Chicago Day at the Exposition. Seven hundred thou- 
sand spectators crowded through the gates, women fainting 
in the crush, children getting lost or mislaid by far the 
greatest turnout the city had ever seen. Mayor Carter H. 
Harrison and visiting dignitaries spoke, in celebration of the 
/ Will spirit with which the community had risen out of its 

For nineteen days the elation of that gathering lingered 
as the World's Fair moved toward its end. Then it was shat- 
tered by a tragedy. 

Summoned by a ring of the doorbell in his home, the 
popular Mayor Harrison was shot down by a disappointed 
office-seeker named Prendergast, who had a mental twist and 
thought the mayor had plotted to keep him out of a job. Mr. 
Harrison died in a few minutes, and the city he loved was 
plunged into gloom. 

Certainly the regret of every Chicago newspaper worker 
for his death was whole-hearted, and his bitterest enemies in 
life did not hesitate to laud him now for his good sportsman- 
ship and his invariable on-the-square attitude. 

Harrison, like Altgeld, had made it a point to get out 
among the plain people and learn what they were thinking 
about, and what they were up against. Repeatedly he had 
taken the side of the workers when they were being exploited 


by employers or beaten down by the police* He was a whole- 
some man of the people in spite of his shortcomings. Among 
newspapermen, I used to hear them say that before an audi- 
ence of Bohemian workingmen, he would tell them he had 
Bohemian blood in his veins; and when talking to Irish, 
Czechs, Poles, Italians, Russians, Syrians, Greeks, or Jews, 
he would claim a similar identity with them. This stretch of 
his imagination appealed to me. At least it was an indication 
of a lack of racial prejudice, though interpreted by his 
enemies as demagogy. 

Carter Harrison was a man I could not help liking, 
though he was a Democrat Earlier I had illustrated the 
Evening Mail's stories of his journey around the world. 
Those pictures, drawn on chalk plates, were in humorous 
vein, showing the mayor meeting Queen Victoria and smil- 
ing upon her, hobnobbing with Bismarck, giving diplomatic 
pointers to the Sultan of Turkey, and encountering the in- 
evitable discomfitures of foreign travel in the Eighties. 

The Inter-Ocean of course kept on criticizing the acts 
and policies of President Cleveland's administration. But not 
all my cartoons of Cleveland had to do with politics; some 
dealt with his passion for fishing and other diversions. And 
because we were not now trying to defeat him in a contest 
the criticisms were usually not so harsh as they had been in 
the campaign. Two years earlier his daughter Ruth h'ad been 
born, and various photographs of her had been published. I 
took occasion to put the child in many of my Cleveland car- 
toons, a touch of sentimental contrast to her bulky father; 
who wore a size 19 collar. I was told by our Washington 
correspondent, White Busbey, that Mrs. Cleveland saved all 
of my pictures in which Ruth appeared. 

Hard times followed the closing of the Fair. Real estate 
values dropped, great numbers of workers were made jobless 
by the closing of mills and factories, many men begged food 
on the streets with watchful eyes out for the police, and the 
newspapers made much of ''the tramp problem/' They gen- 
erally regarded all homeless and unemployed men as tramps, 
assumed that all these wanderers were opposed to work, and 
pictured "the tramp" as a menace to society. Supposedly he 
was what he was because he had a shiftless nature. 


Kohlsaat sold his control of the Inter-Ocean in May, 
1894. The identity of the new ownership was vague, but an 
official announcement said that the policies of the paper would 
remain unchanged, and that the Inter-Ocean would "continue 
to serve the best interests of Chicago in its onward march/' 
We of the editorial department were assured that our jobs 
were safe, and things went on as before* 

I made it a point to sketch and interview celebrities who 
came to town, and to find out, for my own information if 
not that of the paper, what was in their minds. Some day 
when I got around to it, I figured I would get up a book 
containing pictures of well-known people I had met. 

W T. Stead had arrived in Chicago in February, intent 
upon a crusade against drink, gambling, and commercialized 
prostitution, which he had fought in London* Clarence 
Webster and I went to see him at his hotel, and he readily 
remembered the page of pictures of the last night of the Paris 
Exposition which I had done for his Pall Mall Budget, and 
Webster's writings for the Budget and Stead's other publica- 
tion, the Pall Mall Gazette. He was exploring the slums in 
our city, he told us, and was gathering material for a book on 
his findings. This man, with his bushy red beard and burning 
blue eyes, struck me as fearless, and sincere. 

He wrote his book with white-hot ardor, and when it 
was finished he had me draw a cover design for it. The title 
was If Christ Came to Chicago, and it shocked the city, for 
it contained names of distinguished citizens, some of them 
pillars of wealthy churches, who owned buildings in the red- 
light districts and leased them to the madams at high rentals. 
And he listed also the names of wealthy but respectable tax- 
dodgers and grafting politicians then known as "boodlers." 

Stead had intended to go to other cities in the United 
States and expose similar conditions, but the outcry against 
"the mouthings of this alien interloper* ' was so loud and the 
power of the gentlemen attacked so far-reaching that he 
found his way blocked at every turn. 

The press threw cold water on his fiery crusade. The 
publishers and the business interests they served couldn't 
allow such "bad advertising" for Chicago. Another thing 
Stead did to arouse antagonism was to declare his belief in 
the innocence of Samuel Fielden, one of the Haymarket pris- 


oners whom Altgeld had pardoned. Fielden was a country- 
man of his, having been a Methodist minister in a small Eng- 
lish town* 

When I drew a picture of this militant journalist, relaxing 
in his room after a strenuous day in the slums, he wrote be- 
neath my drawing: "These are my legs, but the face is too 
tranquilly benevolent for W. T. Stead/' 


THERE had long been an unspoken agreement that some 
day Elizabeth and I would marry. That was the usual 
understanding in a small town when a young man and 
a girl had been "going together" for several years. And as 
Christmas approached in 1894 I was in a romantic mood. 
Having seen some of my friends evidently happy with their 
children clustered about them, I had visualized a similar 
happiness. Yet I hadn't thought much of marriage as an 
actuality in my life. 

But it seemed that this was a good time for Elizabeth 
and myself to make the venture. I was now nearly twenty- 
nine years old. I had saved up considerable money, and the 
future looked bright. For seven years my sweetheart and her 
sister Kate had been keeping house for* their uncle, Len 
Cheney, in Wauwatosa, a suburb of Milwaukee. Elizabeth 
and I were home in Monroe for the holidays, and I took 
occasion to suggest a quiet wedding soon. 

The idea was agreeable to her, and we were married in 
Uncle Len's house on New Year's Day, 1895, by a clergy- 
man friend of Elizabeth's family. 

I wonder if any bridegroom ever really feels ecstatic dur- 
ing a wedding ceremony. I didn't. I felt self-conscious, and 
victimized by formality, and there seemed something fateful, 
like the clicking of a key in a lock, in the sound of the words: 
"Do you take this woman to be your lawful wife, for better 
or for worse, until death do you part?" and in my answer: 
"I do." But my embarrassment gave way to a feeling of 
comic sadness that every young man was expected to go 
through marriage ; now it was my turn. We honeymooned in 
Chicago. Returning, we stayed on at Wauwatosa. The Cheney 
house was neat and cheerful under the deft hands of Eliza- 
beth and Kate, and their Uncle Len was a genial host. 

Uncle Len liked to paint in oil. His canvases he called 



"merely impressions" and Elizabeth, with playful sarcasm, 
would say quietly to me, "merely impressions/* He had in- 
vested a good deal of money in a silver mine near Cripple 
Creek, Colorado. He would read the letters from the company 
aloud to us. All the mine needed now was another shaft or 
an ore-crusher, and the company president or treasurer in- 
variably closed his communication with "Thanks for the 
check/' Through seven years the girls had become so familiar 

ELIZABETH NORTH, who became the 
author's wife. 

with these letters that the phrase, "Thanks for the check**, 
had become a household joke, and Uncle Len himself would 
laugh with us, although I do not think he ever lost faith in 
the mine* 

I had married without much deliberation as to the next 
step. We had no definite plans yet for home-making, and 
decided it would be best for Elizabeth to continue living in 
Wauwatosa for a while, and I would run up from Chicago 
for week-ends. This was a pleasant arrangement. Through 
each week I would look forward eagerly to the moment on 


Saturday when I would hasten to the depot to catch the late- 
afternoon train. We spent some of these week-ends in the 
parks, and then extended our walks to the surrounding coun- 
try. Always I carried a sketching pad in a pocket, and made 
pictures of my wife in many poses, and of any likely subject 
that we came upon. The next time we visited Monroe, my 
brother-in-law, Clyde Copeland, said: "This ought to be a 
good time for us to burn that 'No wedding bells for me* 
masterpiece of yours." I made a lame joke about it, saying: 
"I didn't have any wedding bells. We were married in a 
house, not in a church/' 

While the glow of our honeymoon was still upon us, I 
began to note signs of an impending upheaval in both the 
editorial and business departments of the Inter-Ocean. There 
had been some change in control behind the scenes, rumor 
saying that Charles Yerkes, the traction magnate, who had 
been grabbing up street franchises right and left, had bought 
a majority of the stock. Some time later his control of the 
paper was public knowledge. 

Working schedules were tightened, office rules rigidly 
enforced, deadlines pushed ahead, and everybody was made 
uncomfortable. Old editors, writers, and artists were being 
displaced one after another. Nobody knew where the axe 
would strike next. Some of the boys found other berths and 
resigned before they could be pushed out. Each time a man 
was given the sack he was assured that this was "no reflection 
upon your ability, but simply the working out of new office 
policies/' Victor Murdock was one of the reporters on the 
Inter-Ocean then. Later he was elected as a Representative in 
Congress from Kansas, and succeeded his father as editor of 
the Wichita Eagle. 

My future being uncertain, I pondered what move to 
make next. Clarence Webster was planning to go to San 
Francisco, having been offered a place on one of the leading 
dailies there by a friend who had risen to the top since his 
journalistic days in Chicago. And presently I also received an 
offer from Lansing Warren, a former member of the Inter- 
Ocean staff, who had become editor of the Denver Times, an 
evening paper owned by David H. Moffatt, the banker. He 


wrote that the Times was willing to take me on as a cartoon- 
ist at the same salary I was then getting. 

Colorado seemed far away, out in the vast beyond an 
unknown quantity to me as a spot in which to live. But 
here was a job worth considering. So I took the first train 
for Milwaukee to discuss the situation with Elizabeth. After 
weighing all the elements involved, we agreed that I'd better 
go alone to Denver, try it out for a few weeks, and if I liked 
the work and the location I would send for her. 

Denver was then a bustling community of 125,000 popu- 
lation. It still had a certain frontier rawness, though here 
and there were evidences of up-to-date ambition. The air was 
not at all like that of Chicago. On a summer day, if you 
stepped into the shadow of a telegraph pole you felt as if you 
were freezing; step out into the sun, and you were frying. 

My sponsor made me at home in the Times office. After 
he had introduced me to the staff and explained the paper's 
program and the kind of cartoons it wanted, he took me to 
lunch at the Brown Palace Hotel, the show-place of the city. 
Here I spent a leisurely and profitable hour, while my host 
pointed out local persons of importance and gave me the 
highlights of Denver history. This hotel and this dining 
room had had as guests General Grant, the Prince of Wales, 
Sarah Bernhardt, Edwin Booth, General William T. Sher- 
man, Oscar Wilde,' John L. Sullivan, Emma Abbott, and the 
Duke of Manchester and of course I was duly impressed. 

Warren had stories to tell also of Eugene Field's years as 
columnist on the Denver Tribune his comment on the 
Shakespearean efforts of John McCullough: "He played the 
king as though he feared somebody would play the ace"; 
his entering a stray mongrel in a dog show and winning a 
blue ribbon with it; and his Oscar Wilde hoax. Field dressed 
up a friend in a velvet coat, with lace cuffs and a sunflower 
in his lapel, and drove him about town in a carriage a couple 
of hours before the poet was due to arrive. The pseudo- 
aesthete bowed to onlookers along the way and raised a 
plumed hat resembling a British admiral's in salute* Wilde 
was ready to bite nails when he learned of the impersona- 
tion, and delivered his scheduled lecture that night with 
resentment showing through the words. 


Coming out of the dining room, Warren said: "See that 
man leaning over the desk?" A broad-shouldered elderly 
person with a black slouch hat, drooping moustaches, and 
an old frock coat, was asking some question, and the clerk's 
answer was a negative nod. The inquirer turned glumly 

"That/* said Warren, "is ex-Senator Tabor, who used to 
be the richest man west of the Mississippi. He was cleaned 
out when the silver market hit the rocks/* Walking along 
the streets Warren pointed out the landmarks which the 
Senator had built in his heyday the Tabor Block and the 
Tabor Grand Opera House, in which he had objected to a 
drop curtain bearing the likeness of William Shakespeare, 
demanding to know: "What did he ever do for Denver?" 
and having his own portrait substituted for that of the Avon 

The Times had lately been taken over by Moffatt, and 
though he was reputed to have plenty of money, the paper 
had the -look of being on a precarious footing. It was trying 
to cut into the field of the Rocky Mountain News, a property 
which was doing well, and which was controlled by Thomas 
M. Patterson, attorney, politician, and afterward United 
States Senator. The News was a morning sheet, like the 
Republican, which had merged with and absorbed the old 
Tribune, on which Eugene Field had written his lively quips. 
Our only rival in the afternoon field was the Post, which 
also was struggling along. 

Immediately I began drawing a daily cartoon, in three 
column-width, and the Times featured these. Some of them 
dealt with silver and gold coinage and other aspects of politics, 
but a good many had to do with purely local events* My 
scrapbook includes one on a vital business issue, captioned: 
"Denver Holds the Bag the Others Bag the Game/* This 
shows a hunter personifying the Colorado metropolis holding 
a sack labeled High Freight Rates, while other hunters (Kan- 
sas City, Chicago, Omaha, Salt Lake City, St. Joseph) are 
bringing down birds with guns labeled Low Rates. . . . 
Another is headed: "Still They Come to the Great Conven- 
tion City/* with a pictured procession revealing the Amalga- 
mated Order of Chinese Laundrymen, the United Order of 
Hot Tamale Peddlers, the National Asociation of Street 


Bands, the Mystic Order of Phrenologists, and the National 
Order of Veteran Sports, I am not sure how much benefit, if 
any, the Queen City of the Silver State derived from that free 
advertising, but the idea I was trying to convey was that 
Denver, being the ideal convention city, welcomed all comers. 

The Times didn't think much of the government's policy 
in dealing with the aboriginal Americans, There was some 
trouble with the red men just then, and I drew a cartoon 
headed "That Bannock Indian War/' with an underline: 
"We think Poor Lo has the laugh on you, Uncle Sam/' 
Uncle is seen on a still hunt with a gun, while an Indian 
brave is hiding behind a rock. . , . The opening of the 
muskmelon season was recognized pictorially under the cap- 
tion: Rocky Ford's Great Day, that town being the center of 
a vast and fertile farm region where luscious melons were 

Once the business manager got an idea from somewhere 
that some of my pictures might be useful in appeals for 
circulation. He would write the words to go with the illus- 
trations. As a writer he was a good deal of a loss to the Times. 
Whenever he sat down to struggle with the English language 
great beads of sweat stood out on his brow. One of our 
collaborations showed a lot of frogs around a pond croaking 
the words: "Hard times!'' The caption went Stop Croaking 
and Read the Times, and beneath the picture was this poetic 
atrocity : 

If croaking croakers who sit all day 
And fill the air with their sorrowful lay 
Would only stop croaking for a minute or two, 
How much better 'twould be for me and for you. 

I soon learned that they preferred me to fill my cartoon 
space with glorifications and boostings of Denver the city 
a mile above the sea, with 300 cloudless days a year, the 
greatest health resort in the West, and kindred claims. Colo- 
rado's scenic wonders also received their share of attention. 

There were other features of Denver life and industry, 
however, that the Times did not touch upon, but which I 
glimpsed in evening walks with Warren and others after 
dinner in the Brown Palace, or the Windsor Hotel, where 
the legendary Horace Tabor had held forth in the days 


when he threw money away like water. The city was wide 
open. "The powers-that-be figure it's good business/' fellow 
staff-members explained. "Plenty of chance for the flush 
boys from out of town to spend their money, or lose it on 
games of purported chance. It all means that that money 
comes into Denver, and gets into general circulation. Some- 
body gets a cut for protection, and everybody is happy/' 

Down in the night-life section, known as The Lowers, 
various salons de joie were well patronized. Sounds of well- 
pounded pianos came from all sides. Warren pointed out the 
favorite establishment of state legislators who didn't want to 
be lonesome when they visited the capital. In the gambling 
houses one could find any game that his heart might desire, 
and there was no limit on the stakes. 

In the afternoons after I had finished next day's picture, 
I would wander about town looking for ideas, dropping in 
at the hotels to see if any odd characters were around, talking 
with any local old-timers who happened along, and search- 
ing out the city's landmarks. 

On Larimer street I came upon an institution full of 
romantic appeal Tammen's Free Museum. 

All sorts of relics of the Old West were here mementoes 
of Indian and cattle wars, of prairie schooner journeys, of 
bad men and vigilantes, horse thieves and quick-on-the-draw 
sheriffs, legal hangings and lynchings. Bows and arrows, 
arrow-heads, stone hatchets, scalps, outlaws' guns, deathbed- 
confessions, dead bandits' boots* The public was welcomed 
to come in and see these historic trophies without charge 
but every curio in the "museum" was for sale. A thrilling 
show, all of which looked real to my unsuspecting eye. But 
I was not moved to buy any of those articles. 

"Your instinct was correct," a former Denverite assured 
me some years later. "If you had bought Jesse James's favor- 
ite six-shooter, there would have been another just like it, 
and with the same label, on display within a month. Tarn- 
men had a factory nearby turning out that -stuff for the 
visiting trade/' 

Fortunately, however, there were some things in Denver 
to feed the intellect. Occasionally I went to hear a militant 
independent preacher named Myron Reed, who gave Sunday 


lectures in a theatre. My recollection is that he had been 
ousted from a regular pulpit because of sermons assailing the 
methods by which many rich men had gained their wealth* 
He drew big audiences, and the faces of his hearers lighted 
up as he talked* To me, he gave something that one couldn't 
get in a regular church for he dealt with the realities of 
that day instead of the dim happenings of 1,900 years ago. 

A tall, lank Scotchman, Reed made a deep impression 
upon me. His eloquence was simple, but he said things which 
one remembered on the way home. He raised questions about 
justice in the world, the rights of the poor, the laws that 
were made by the strong to keep the masses "quiet and con- 

Listening to this clear-speaking man, and thinking about 
his words afterward as I walked along the streets, I began to 
wonder about the justice in the attitude of the newspapers 
generally toward happenings like the march of Coxey's 
Army, and the American Railroad Union strike, in which 
Eugene Debs had seen sent to jail. The movement set going 
by "General" Jacob Coxey had failed, it was true; but had it 

THE VANGUARD OF COXEY'S ARMY. Led by Carl Brown on a 
white horse, it enters Washington. 

ever been given a chance to succeed? From the start the press 
had heaped ridicule upon it; and another countless army 
of paid molders of opinion- had seen hilarious comedy in 
the spectacle of thousands of ragged and hungry men beating 
their way across the country to demand relief in Washing- 

* By the same token, a multitude of theatre-goers through five years have 
laughed uproariously at the comedy in Tobacco Road, evidently without per~ 
ceiving the underlying tragedy in the dramatized lives of Jeeter Lester and his 
impoverished family in the back country of Georgia. Max Eastman explains this 
phenomenon in his Enjoyment of Laughter. 


But what was wrong In that attempted protest? I re- 
called the editorial bleating of outrage when Coxey's fol- 
lowers commandeered freight trains to speed their progress* 
That was trespass, of course; or confiscation, if you pre- 
ferred the word; yet what was there so terrible about it? 
Weren't the editors and captains of industry really incensed 
because the Coxey migration showed up the vast poverty and 
degradation in the United States? Wasn't it in the nature of 
a mortifying "scene" like that of a neglected wife berating 
her husband in public?* 

I reflected, too, that one Chicago newspaper, the Times, 
had held that the treatment of the Coxeyites by the Washing- 
ton police was 'Vicious and brutal** and "a blunder/' The 
Times had been owned by the assassinated Mayor Carter H. 
Harrison and had since been operated by his son Carter Jr. 
and another son* 

That paper, too, had taken the side of the railroad 
workers in the great Pullman strike when George M. Pull- 
man had answered their demands for a living wage by say- 
ing: "There is nothing to arbitrate/' 

It was in such a mood that I went to hear an address by 
Keir Hardie at a labor mass-meeting, I had read about him, 
and he had appealed to my imagination. I knew that this 
Scotsman had been a coal miner and a union leader, and that 
he was a member of Parliament, representing a London dis- 

Early that summer Hardie had stood up in the House of 
Commons and attacked Chancellor of the Exchequer Sir 
William Harcourt, Leader of the House, and his fellow- 
members for refusing to express a vote of sympathy to the 
bereaved families of more than 250 miners killed in a South 

* The eminent Mark Sullivan, in Our Times, declares that Coxey's Army 
marched to Washington to "take control of the government in the interest of 
the people or what Coxey thought was the people's interest." Mr. Sullivan is 
one of those casual historians who pick up their "facts" here and there. I doubt 
if any of Coxey's critics in 1894 ever went so far as to accuse him of any in- 
tention to take over the government. The manifest purpose of Coxey and his 
legions of the dispossessed was to demand that Congress provide aid for unem- 
ployed workers and their families. That of course was a startling proposal in 
those days long before the New Deal. If the federal authorities had had any 
tangible evidence of subversive plans, the leaders of the march surely would 
have been prosecuted for treason, instead of being jailed for walking on the 
Capitol lawn. 


Wales colliery explosion. That happened because the grasp- 
ing mine owners had not provided adequate safety devices. 

Harcourt had moved a vote of condolence to the people 
of France when President Carnot was assassinated the next 
day, and called upon the House to congratulate Queen Vic- 
toria upon the birth of her great-grandson, who in time 
became King Edward VIII. But the Chancellor ruled out of 
order a move for an expression of antipathy to the system 
which made mine disasters inevitable. 

In a speech which nearly caused apoplexy to many of his 
hearers and which brought bitter denunciation to him from 
the reactionary English press, Keir Hardie stood unwavering 
and said: 

"The life of one Welsh miner is of greater commercial 
and moral value to the British nation than the whole royal 
crowd put together. . . . Two hundred and fifty human 
beings, full of strong life in the morning, reduced to charred 
and blackened heaps of clay in the evening! . . . Only 
those who have witnessed such scenes, as I have twice over, 
can realize what they mean. . . . 

"Coal must be got cheap even if twelve hundred sturdy 
miners are murdered yearly in the process twelve hundred 
hearths made desolate." 

He was shaggy looking like a Scotch terrier, his head, 
chin, and cheeks covered with brownish curled hair and his 
strong voice deeply burred. Thirty-seven then, he looked 
considerably older. One could see at once that beneath this 
rough exterior was a man of learning. The thing that he 
brought home most forcibly to me that night was the fact 
that a strike or a lockout or an industrial disaster was not an 
isolated event; it was part of a struggle, a war, which had 
been going on for decades, and knew no national boundaries. 

"The employers and their henchmen/' he said, "have a 
trick of appealing to your sense of local patriotism. They 
blame unrest on 'outside agitators/ and infer that if it were 
not for these evil interlopers everything would be lovely in 
your community and that nobody would be complaining. 
That trick is as shoddy as the other one of setting two groups 
of people at one another's throats by stirring up their re- 
ligious differences/' 

He quoted a line from Robert Browning: "God give us 


no more geniuses, but elevate the human race!" I had never 
read anything by Browning, and this aroused my interest in 
him* But I could never find such a passage in any of his 

That gathering was notable also because its chairman 
was Governor David Hansen Waite of Colorado, who had 
been elected by the Populists. A calm enough appearing indi- 
vidual, who looked like a fine old farmer, he had been jeer- 

Denver Times 

KEIR HAS.DIE, dealing with the class 
struggle in a Denver speech. 


ingly characterized by the press as '"Bloody Bridles Waite' ' 
for a speech he made at the state silver convention two years 

India's mints had stopped coining silver, and immediately 
the Colorado silver producers had shut down their mines. It 
was then that Waite, addressing that convention, was quoted 

"If the money power shall attempt to sustain its usurpa- 
tion by the 'strong hand' we will meet that issue when it is 


forced upon us, for it is better infinitely that blood should 
flow to the horses' bridles rather than that our natural lib- 
erties be destroyed* . . . 

"If it is true that the United States is unable to carry out 
its governmental policy without the dictation or consent of 
foreign powers; if we are a province of European monarchies, 
then we need another revolution, another appeal to arms/' 

But he talked sensibly enough at the Hardie meeting, and 
had none of the look of a fanatic which one might expect 
from newspaper descriptions of him. 

As the weeks went by I kept postponing my decision as 
to whether Elizabeth ought to come to Colorado, Though it 
made a good deal of noise, the Times did not seem to be 
making much actual headway, and I felt that my position, 
like that of the rest of the staff, was not secure. 

For recreation I took a week-end trip farther up into the 
mountains, to Silver Plume, went riding along rugged trails 
on a burro's back, and did some sketching and water-color 
painting as well as a lot of thinking about the future. The 
novelty of Denver and its holdover atmosphere from fron- 
tier days was wearing thin. I missed the crowd-surge of 
Chicago. Perhaps the time was ripe for me to go to New 
York as a cartoonist and illustrator instead of as a student. I 
would weigh that possibility further. About all I had accom- 
plished in Denver was a reputation for boosting a locality. 

A newspaper publisher in Pueblo, a hundred miles south 
of Denver, who had got me to draw a boosting cartoon for 
his city, annoyed me by failing to pay for it despite repeated 
duns. The more I dwelt on this publisher's audacity, the 
angrier I became. Finally I sat down and wrote him a threat- 
ening letter, saying that I was about to get out a revised 
edition of my book Hell Up to Date, and that I intended to 
put in a Department of Dead Beats with him in a front seat 
fully identified. By return mail I received an answer: "You 
win. Here's your check/' 

Chill autumn weather came, and I felt drawn toward 
home. Denver had a feeling of isolation about it, for I re- 
membered pictures in Harper's Weekly of trains snowbound 
for days in the mountains of the West. I didn't like the 
thought of being caught and held in Colorado through the 


winter. And the Denver newspaper field seemed to lack life; 
the dailies dealt with all sorts of trivialities, reminding one 
of a small town like Monroe. So I gave two weeks' notice of 
leaving. Warren was sorry; we had become good friends. 


ON my way back to Wisconsin I kept thinking that it 
would be best for us to live in New York. I must get 
into a broader field. Elizabeth readily assented when 
I rejoined her in Wauwatosa, and in a few weeks we were 
packed up and set forth. Whether I would seek a regular job 
or free-lance was still an open question, but I was keen for 
some arrangement whereby I could do steady production. 

Constantly in my mind was the realization that it was a 
mistake for a man like me to be married. I had chosen a 
lovely, intelligent girl for a mate, and yet I had a feeling that 
the freedom I had enjoyed when single was no more. I was 
no longer an individual thinking in terms of one. Every 
thought, every plan, now had to include another, and later 
on probably it would have to include three or four. I am 
sure that Elizabeth tried hard to understand what kind of a 
man it was to whom she had entrusted her future. Still I felt 
there was something wrong in the idea of our signing a 
contract agreeing to love each other forever when Nature 
obviously was opposed to such compacts. 

Yet Elizabeth was patient. She saw humor and beauty in 
life, and our journey to the metropolis was an enjoyable 
one. I found fun and novelty in showing my wife the sights 
of New York. We lived first on Washington Place, a few 
doors from Washington Square, where we had a comfortable 
apartment. As soon as I got down to work here things took 
on a brighter hue, and I began to feel that maybe married 
life would turn out all right after all; perhaps it was just a 
matter of adjusting myself to the changed conditions. 

Later we lived in the top studio of the Winfield Scott 
Moody home on Ninth Street west of Fifth Avenue. Moody 
was one of the editors of Scribner's, and his wife was a writer 
for the Ladies' Home Journal and other magazines. After- 
ward, for a time, we had a cheerful hall room in a boarding 



house on West 16th Street, opposite St. Francis Xavier Col- 

Here I began to see that Elizabeth could be helpful in 
suggesting ideas for drawings. Two pictures among others 
for which she gave me the suggestions come to mind. One, 
published in Life, bore the caption: "Willie Jones as he 
seems to his teacher to the cook to the cat to his 
mother/' Another, used in Judge, portrays a farmer who 
looks at his turkeys as they stand sadly awaiting the Thanks- 
giving Day axe, and beholding the long necks and general 

FARMER" Mother. I hain't got the heart ter do It. It 'd seem too much like killln' one o' the family." 



resemblance to his own kin, says: "Mother, I haint* got the 
heart to do it it's too much like killing one of the family/' 
At that time I had my first experience with the type of 
man who might be termed a 'city slicker." He was a Wall 
Street speculator with an office in Exchange Place. My wife 
met his wife in the boarding house and we all became so- 
ciable. Free with cigars and with an air of prosperity, he got 
into my good graces by praising Elizabeth's character and 
looks. And one day he mentioned that he might be in a posi- 
tion soon to put me in the way of making considerable 
money. He was just waiting for an expected turn in the stock 
market to cash in on it in a large way* 


Presently he announced that that turn had come, and if 
I could put up $300 he would invest it for me so that I 
would make a fat profit. By adroitly leading Elizabeth on in 
conversation, his wife had learned that I had some $3,000 in 
a savings hank, which I had drawn out of a Chicago build- 
ing and loan association* My sense of caution led me to balk 
at giving him the sum he asked, but I let him have $200 
with which he bought the rising stock, only to have it go 
down like a punctured balloon next day. I never got any of 
the money back, and counted the experience as a valuable 


In this boarding house lived Volney Streamer, who 
worked for Brentano's as an expert in English bibliography. 
He wore a wig, had been an actor with Booth, and was now 
dyspeptic and a misanthrope. My brother Will, who had 
come east a couple of years before and was on the World 
staff, had met Streamer on several occasions, and one evening 
when we were sitting in the parlor Streamer came in. Will in 
his cordial manner said: "Good evening, Brother Streamer!" 
Scowling darkly, Streamer retorted: 'Tin brother to no- 

I made no move to get a job in New York. Free-lancing 
appealed to me now much more than tying up to office 
routine, and in the long run, I thought, I would make more 
money in the open market 

My drawings in that period of frequent change of resi- 
dence were done anywhere in bedroom or living room or 
wherever I could slant a drawing-board, and usually I had 
difficulty in finding a good light. It was not long, however, 
until I bought a simple collapsible drawing table, which I 
still use. For forty-odd years I have drawn most of my car- 
toons on this table. Later, in relatively prosperous days, I 
bought a larger one, of an expensive type used by architects, 
on which I drew with a feeling of being less restricted in area 
and this I also have in my Bethel studio. 

When I was a boy I remember writing to Bernard Gillam 
of Pack asking him what kind of a pen and what kind of 
paper he used in doing his cartoons. He didn't answer. Nor 
was the question so momentous as I thought I didn't ask 
him what kind of a table he used, but details concerning the 
tools of any profession loom large in significance when 


you're young less so as one gets older. My friend T. S. 
Sullivant of Life was one who never got over his keen in- 
terest in implements and materials. He would be jubilant for 
days over the discovery of a certain quality of paper or a new 
pen which worked just right* 

During those first years of married life and trying to 
succeed I found that I could not make sufficient income to 
meet our living expense. Gradually my bank account was 
dwindling, but not through other reckless loans of money 
for speculation. Some months I would break even then 
have a slump. If I received a check for less than I thought I 
ought to get from Life, I would spend hours trying to write 
a tactful letter to John Ames Mitchell, the editor, explaining 
that I had expected at least ten dollars more than he had paid 
me; and invariably he would send me an extra ten. But 
generally I had no heart for arguing about money and would 
take what I could get. 

Soon I came to know the personnel of the inner sanctums 
of Pack, Judge, and Life, and what was quite as important 
I knew those stationed at the outer gates, so that I wasn't 
kept waiting when I called to see the editors. Frequently I had 
dinner with one or more of them Tom Masson of Life, 
Grant Hamilton and James Melvin Lee of Judge, young Jo- 
seph Keppler, Arthur Folwell, and Bert Leston Taylor of 

The elder Joseph Keppler, whose cartoons in that weekly 
had been a national institution for so many years, had died 
in February, 1894, and I had done a memorial cartoon of 
him then for the Chicago Inter-Ocean. Young Joe thought- 
fully gave me a fine collection of prints and humorous Euro- 
pean magazines which his father had owned. Looking them 
over is one of my pleasures today. 

I still called myself a Republican, and the anti-Democrat 
atmosphere of the Inter-Ocean office still clung to me as the 
1896 national campaign got into full swing. McKinley and 
Hobart were appealing for votes on the promise of "a full 
dinner pail for every workingman." That struck me as a 
vulgar issue, and I told Grant Hamilton, who did most of 
the full dinner-pail cartoons for Judge, that a plea to the 
worker's stomach, as if that was the only thing the laboring 
man could understand, was insulting. 


But I remembered the hard times under Democratic rule, 
which was being emphasized in Republican campaign litera- 
ture, and I was pleased with the opportunity to propagandize 
for the Grand Old Party I was working for the nation's 
"best people" the same party which, led by Herbert Hoover 
years later, appealed to the workers with the slogan: "A 
chicken in every pot/' 

W. J. Bryan had been nominated by both the Democrats 
and the Populists, who termed themselves the People's Party, 
and to us Republicans that proved there was something 
wrong with him. He had won the nomination by a speech in 
Chicago, which was being repeated by other orators as if it 
were a trumpet call to save the nation that speech which 
had this grandiloquent climax: 

"You come to us and tell us that the great cities are in favor 
of the gold standard: we reply that the great cities rest upon our 
broad and fertile prairies. Burn down your cities and leave our 
farms, and your cities will spring up again as if by magic; but 
destroy our farms and the grass will grow in the streets of every 
city in the country. . . . 

"Having behind us the producing masses of this nation and 
the world, supported by the commercial interests, the laboring 
interests, and the toilers everywhere, we will answer their demand 
for a gold standard by saying to them: You shall not press down 
upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns, you shall not crucify 
mankind upon a cross of gold." 

"Just a demagogue's play to the farmers and labor, the 
seductive words of a master-hypnotist," the Republicans 
said. Bryan as a Democrat was crusading for Free Silver, on 
a 16-to-l coinage ratio, and the pro-McKinley press saw a 
great danger in that. I was never quite clear about the silver- 
and-gold coinage question, and in fact I would be hazy about 
it now if some visiting foreigner were to ask me point-blank 
to explain it* But as the candidate of the Populists the Com- 
moner from Nebraska stood for government ownership of 
the railroads, the telegraph, and the telephone systems and 
that practically meant Socialism, or Anarchism, according to 
the newspapers and magazines which spoke for the Repub- 
lican party. 

Judge was in the forefront of the attack. Its methods were 


far from scrupulous, as I view them now, though at the time 
I was not so critical, the attitude of all those around me 
being that anything was fair in politics. Typical of Judge's 
onslaughts was a full-page front cover cartoon in colors, 
drawn by Grant Hamilton, and captioned "The Sacrilegious 
Candidate/' This portrayed Bryan, bare-armed and with torn 
shirt, standing with booted foot on a Bible, with a cross of 
gold in his left arm and a crown of thorns in his right hand. 
Speeches "plagiarized from the Bible'* protruded from his 
pockets. Beneath the picture were the words: "No man who 
drags into the dust the most sacred symbols of the Christian 
world is fit to be President of the United States/' Nearby a 
tatterdemalion figure in a French Revolution cap was waving 
a red flag labeled Anarchy. 

But if Judge's editors were horrified by the idea of drag- 
ging sacred symbols in the dust, its advertising department 
was not. For in the same year that periodical ran an advertise- 
ment reading: "The modern Joan of Arc polishes her boots 
with Brown's French dressing/* with a half-tone cut of 
Joan, sword in one hand and flag in the other. 

As a result of all this valiant effort, our noble candidates 
won. The villainous Democrats who had been responsible for 
all the hard times were sent up Salt Creek by vote of the 
people, and in came a new era of prosperity and full stomachs 
for the workers that is, if you read the Republican press. 

But my own income was still low, and the economic 
problem was pressing. Mornings I spent at the drawing table, 
and in the afternoon I would set out to visit editorial offices 
or to cultivate contacts through which I could learn the 
political inclination of editors who were buying pictures. I 
would study current magazines for their "policy" for each 
had some definite slant. Most of this studying was done at 
the periodical counter in Brentano's basement, where I would 
browse at length and finally pay out money for a single 
magazine as a sop to my conscience for having had such an 
educational feast. 

I had been working at intervals on pictures and text for 
a book to be called Authors' Readings. This was intended to 
comprise recitations from the work of sixteen well-known 
writers, with a short biography of each, and sketches showing 

Authors' Readings 

FROM AN EARLY ART YOUNG BOOK. Literary notables of the day. 
The one whose name is not shown is C. B. Lewis, widely known then as 
"M. Quad." 

them in characteristic attitudes, as I had seen them reading 
their works* Frederick A. Stokes liked the idea, but thought 
my manuscript contained enough material for two books. 



So a single volume of 2 1 5 pages was published, dealing with 
nine individuals Eugene Field, James Whitcomb Riley, Bill 
Nye, Hamlin Garland, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Opie Read, Will 
Carleton, Mary Hartwell Catherwood, and C B. Lewis, who 
wrote under the nom de plume of M. Quad. There was a 
foreword implying that a second volume would be issued to 
cover the others, who were named. 

Both the publishers and I were expectant of substantial 
sales. But the returns were small, and so the plan for the 
second volume went into the discard. It would have cele- 
brated the literary creations of General Lew Wallace, Captain 
Charles King, Joaquin Miller, Octave Thanet, John Vance 
Cheney, Lillian Bell, Henry B. Fuller, and Robert Burdette. 

I had a notion that the West was breeding writers who in 
time might stand the test of enduring worth as well as the 
New England breed. Some of my selections were amateurish 
but they were the best I could find at the time. 

After the battleship Maine was blown up I made several 
cartoons for Leslie's Weekly in line with its advocacy of war 
with Spain. For months various New York newspapers had 
been emphasizing the tragedy of the Spanish domination of 
Cuba, against which the Cubans had revolted, and calling for 
intervention. The killing of 257 American seamen in Havana 
harbor intensified the editorial demands to the point of 
hysteria. It was instantly assumed by the Hearst papers and 
others not ordinarily thought of as yellow that Spain's hand 
was behind that explosion although the court of inquiry 
never found any tangible evidence of that, simply reporting 
that in its opinion the explosion was due to a submarine 

But it was easy for me to believe, as everybody around 
me did, that Spain was guilty. Such an act seemed in line with 
its treatment of the Cubans, and its surly attitude toward 
American protests against its policy in the Caribbean area. 
No one seemed to realize that it might have been perpetrated 
by some Cuban who wanted the United States to intervene. 
And on all sides the press and public men were thundering 
that it was a sacred duty for this nation to chastise Spain and 
put her in her proper place. The Hearst papers were inter- 
spersed with small red-white-and-blue American flags with 


the words: "Cuba Libre!" and "Remember the Maine!" And 
boys and men were wearing celluloid buttons on their coat 
lapels bearing those slogans and another: "Remember the 
Maine, to hell with Spain !" 

Instead of spreading my war cartoons across several issues, 
as I had anticipated, Leslie's combined them into a full page 
and ran all at once. That was gratifying* 

Those drawings illustrated quoted passages from speeches 
by four United States Senators Thurston, Proctor, Gallin- 
ger, and Mason all calling for revenge. 

In one issue Leslie's asked that the public suspend judge- 
ment on the guilt in the blowing up of the Maine until the 
wreck could be raised and the truth about the cause ascer- 
tained. But that, I believe, was its only judicial utterance in 
that period. Week after week it whooped up the war spirit. 
If there were indeed any voices objecting to our coming to 
grips with Spain, they were lost in the din. 

To me that war, when it presently came, was equally as 
just as the war waged by the North to free the slaves. Even 
though I knew that the South had fired the first gun in 1861, 
I was still confused about that conflict. I was not aware then 
of the economic causes which lie behind most wars. . . . Spain 
needed a lesson, I thought, and needed to be soundly whipped. 

But when the stories began to come through from Tampa 
of the "embalmed beef" fed to the American troops, of sol- 
diers dying like flies of fever and dysentery in unsanitary 
camps, and then of others dying in battle, some of whom had 
been my friends and acquaintances, doubt entered my mind. 
Was war, after all, the best way to settle international 
wrongs? And how far, I asked myself, was a cartoonist or an 
editorial writer who advocated such a war, responsible for 
the deaths of those soldiers? It was chiefly members of the 
working class who were being killed and wounded, and not 
the sons of the meat packers or of the other wealthy men 
who were making big profits on sales to the War Department. 

Even with those doubts, I was thrilled when the news 
came of Dewey's victory in Manila Bay. Most of the re- 
ports in the press were highly dramatized, and throughout 
all the news and editorials the note was sounded insistently 
that this was a righteous war. There were acts of individual 
daring, like that of Hobson and his men sinking the collier 


Merrimac in Santiago harbor to bottle up Cervera's fleet, 
which made patriotic hearts beat faster and I was still a 
super-patriot my country right or wrong, 

Teddy Roosevelt leading the Rough Riders up San Juan 
Hill was great stuff reading the papers one got the idea that 
Teddy was practically the one who won that war. 

Occasionally, however, there were notes of discord for 
instance, Stephen Crane's dispatch to the World which told 


of the Seventy-first New York Volunteers, a militia regi- 
ment, lying down to keep out of the way of bullets while 
other regiments pushed forward to cope with the Spaniards. 
Mr. Hearst's Journal promptly assailed the World for this 
dastardly reflection upon the bravery of local boys, although 
its indignation was soon deflated when the redoubtable Teddy 
confirmed Crane's story. 

All the heroes came home except those who had died 
afield and New York yelled itself hoarse. I went to hear 
Roosevelt speak on the night of his return from Cuba, every- 


body, including myself, shouting: "Hurrah for Teddy!" 
. . Lieutenant Hobson was kissed by countless young 
women; Admiral Dewey moved up Fifth Avenue and 
through the Victory Arch, acclaimed by the greatest throng 
the city had ever seen; the Hearst papers collected pennies 
from school children to buy a house in Washington for 
Dewey and his bride; and Theodore Roosevelt's political for- 
tunes prospered because of his war reputation. 

After T. R. became President the Russian painter 
Vereshtchagin visited Washington and spent many days at 
Fort Meyer painting a big canvas showing the charge up San 
Juan Hill. The belligerent Teddy was revealed in the thick 
of the fray, on a white horse. This simply proved that the 
great Russian artist had read the early dispatches about that 
battle, and not the later corrected accounts, which brought 
out that there were no horses in the San Juan assault. The 
painting, with the white horse still in it, is said to have been 
sold in New York for $10,000 a few years later. ... In 
1917, when he was touring the army camps, T. R. got a 
laugh in his speeches by saying of the Spanish-American 
imbroglio that "it wasn't much of a war, but it was the only 
war we had just then/' 

We got the Philippines, which seemed the right thing, 
on the theory that if we didn't step in and protect the helpless 
Filipinos, no longer under the Spanish yoke, some grasping 
nation like Japan would go in there and take over the islands 
and exploit the natives. Thus Uncle Sam was being mag- 
nanimous. I didn't know until long after the fact that 
600,000 men, women, and children died in Luzon alone as a 
result of the American-Filipino War which followed the 
Spanish-American conflict. 

To those who may view this statement as incredible, I 
suggest that they read the evidence on page 121 of The Con- 
quest of the Philippines by the United States, by Moorfield 
Storey andMarcialP. Lichauco (Putnam, 1926) . The charge 
is based on an estimate made by Gen. J. M. Bell, who spoke 
from first-hand knowledge. That figure represented one sixth 
of Luzon's native population. 

Two sentences from General Bell's comment on his own 
figures clearly illuminate his attitude toward the situation: 
"The loss of life by killing alone has been very great, but I 


think that not one man has been slain except where his death 
served the legitimate purpose of war. It has been thought 
necessary to adopt what in other countries would probably 
be thought harsh measures/' The italics here are mine. 



SOMETHING was wrong with me, I didn't know what. 
I was listless, found it difficult to concentrate on my 
work, and lay awake nights. So I went to see a doctor. 
"Nothing organically wrong," he said. "Just a case of 'nerves/ 
You've been working too hard. How about a change of scene 
for a while?" 

I knew of one place where I could go for an inexpensive 
outing. A couple of years earlier Father had bought forty 
acres of timberland in Southern Alabama, which the Mobile 
and Ohio Railroad had been selling cheaply. He had spent 
two winters down there, clearing the land with hired help, 
and planting almond trees. His plan was to have an almond 
grove for each of his four children, so that when the trees 
matured we all would have a profitable inheritance. He stayed 
in a hotel in Citronelle, the nearest town, during those visits, 
and Mother was with him through one of the winters. A 
couple employed by Father did the general work on the 

I took a train for Alabama, and in a few days Elizabeth 
joined me. We occupied a little house just outside Citronelle, 
which was set amid healthful wooded country. Here one saw 
incredibly tall and straight Caribbean pines in great pro- 
fusion. And there was fine sketching material hereabouts, 
both in the landscape and among the primitive white folks 
and the happy-go-lucky Negroes (thus I thought of them 
then, not knowing of the hard lives of which their apparently 
care- free attitude gave me no hint) * We soon got acquainted 
with the neighborhood pickaninnies. Some were named after 
perfume brands and others after labels on package groceries. 
I liked to talk with them, their vocal tones and their dreamy 
ideas about life delighting me. The name of one little girl, so 
she insisted, was Pickle Lily. 

I sold a few comic pictures at that time to Judge, for ten, 



fifteen, or twenty dollars. My income was nothing to brag 
about, but rent was low, food cheap, and fuel cost nothing. 
Pine wood, to be had simply for picking it up, made an ex- 
cellent cooking fire. 

The almond farm was miles back from the railroad, and 
to get to it one had to travel with a team over miry roads 
through bad swampy country. Elizabeth and I visited it a 
few times, and the thought of reaping a comfortable living 
from nut groves in future years was gratifying but I was 
not tempted to do any of the work on the farm, although 
Father was busy all the time. Clearing that land for nut 
cultivation was back-breaking toil, and I was satisfied to let 
the hired help earn their pay. 

After several months in Alabama, I felt much refreshed, 
and we returned to New York. My brother-in-law Clyde 
Copeland also went to Citronelle for a few weeks, to help 
along the almond project and for a vacation. But I never 
visited Alabama again. The almond trees did not thrive, and 
presumably the soil was not right for them. In time Father 
gave up the idea, and sold that land. 

"Well, it was a change anyhow and a good way to escape 
Wisconsin winters/' he said, the next time I saw him. "But I 
guess I'd better stick to the store business/' 

We took a small upstairs apartment in West Ninety-third 
Street, and I resumed picture production with considerable 
vim. Frank Nankivell, illustrator, Percival Pollard, then a 
well-known magazine editor, and Robert H. Davis had the 
first floor. Hearst was then buying talent away from Pulit- 
zer's World, and Bob Davis was one of the young editors 
and artists from the West who were making the Evening 
Journal look lively* All kinds of sensational features were 
being tried out. 

Davis was running the Journal's editorial page for a while 
and I wrote a few editorials with illustrations for him. I 
suggested that they be printed in facsimile typewriter style, 
and he thought this a worth-while innovation. But I couldn't 
keep it up. When it came to pouring out my thoughts in 
words on paper I lacked the necessary ability to keep going 
and sustain my theme. I could spurt now and then, but 
routine writing has %lways been too much for me. 


I made the acquaintance of other editors whenever I had 
a tangible excuse, and occasionally opened up a new market. 
A few years before I had met Arthur Brisbane when he was 
on the Sunday World. In Pack and Life I had caricatured 
him as "Whizzbrain." Now he was managing editor of 
Hearst's Evening Journal One evening after the theatre I ran 
into him in Allaire's restaurant (Scheffel Hall) on East Sev- 
enteenth Street, where the beer was excellent even if the food, 
being German-cooked, was a bit heavy. 

We talked at length. Brisbane had been particularly im- 
pressed by pictures of mine which touched upon social prob- 
lems tenements, hungry people, child labor, grafting 
politicians, low wages, and kindred topics. There was one 
drawing of mine in Life that had attracted wide attention, 
and he made much of that. It was called "The Outcast," and 
depicted an old man in rags and broken shoes standing in the 
rain, with these lines by Shakespeare below it: 

Famine is in thy cheeks, 

Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes, 

Upon thy back hangs tagged misery, 

The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law. 

Shortly after that talk Brisbane suggested that I go to 
work regularly on the Journal. He wanted me to draw car- 
toons and illustrate editorials. He had shoved aside the long, 
heavy editorials of the Greeley-Dana and Watterson types 
and substituted easy-to-read summaries of popular issues. His 
offer of $100 a week and his outline of the kind of cartoon 
material he sought appealed to me, and I readily accepted. 

Next morning I reported at the Journal office at William 
and Duane Streets, and Brisbane installed me with my draw- 
ing outfit in William Randolph Hearst's private sanctum, 
which was next to his. Hearst was then in California. Bris- 
bane brought in a plentiful supply of brushes, pens, pencils, 
and drawing ink, and said: "Go to it/' 

This spacious room was quiet and well appointed, with 
mahogany furniture of simple design. One slight disturbance 
lingers in memory. Frederic Remington kept bobbing in day 
after day, a bit tight and somewhat voluble, asking: "Where 
is Mr. Hearst?" I gathered that he wanted some money from 
the absent owner, and when told that he was out of town, 


would shake his head sadly and say over and over: "Can you 
beat it?" * 

Hearst stayed away a month. When he came back a desk 
and chair were assigned to me in the art department, in a 

ARTISTS AND EDITORS. Top, left to right: Frederic 
Remington, Arthur Brisbane. Bottom: Thomas Nast, Bob Davis. 

room with Frederick Opper and T. S. Sullivant Here the 
atmosphere was less conducive to concentration than in the 
chiefs secluded sanctum. 

Lunch-time would usually find Brisbane in an "exclu- 
sive" restaurant just south of the stone arches of Brooklyn 

* Remington died at the age of forty-eight in 1909, soon after he had built 
a house and studio for himself near Ridgefield, Conn. His need for money in 
the days when I was with the Journal is recalled in contrast by a news report 
on May 14, 1937, telling *of the sale at auction of a Remington painting, 
"Ouster's Last Stand , for $7,700. 


Bridge. He favored thick mutton chops, and invariably 
matched coins with some one seated at a table reserved for 
newspapermen to see who would pay for the meaL 

Around four o'clock he would begin pounding out edi- 
torials for next day on his typewriter. He did this with pre- 
cision, and ordinarily was finished in a couple of hours. 

In the art department I enjoyed the frequent badinage 
that joshing indulged in by newspaper artists while "the fac- 


tory" is turning out comics and political cartoons. The char- 
acteristic sound of an art department is scratching the 
scratch of pens and the scratching out of mistakes in the 
making of pictures, not unlike the scraping sound in a barber 
shop when a razor encounters a tough beard, T. S. Sullivant 
did more scratching on his drawing paper than any other 
artist I ever knew. We all were amused by it he was always 
fretfully scratching out his pen-lines and starting over again. 
Once Opper turned to me and said: "If Sullivant would 
scratch his head more and his paper less^ he could draw better 


Things at home had moved along all right for a few 
weeks after Elizabeth and I had returned from Alabama. But 
this condition did not last. My interest in the job at the 
Journal office and its future possibilities of greater income did 
not prevent me from becoming nervous and morose again. I 
would wake up in the mornings feeling depressed, as a caged 
bird must feel when it wants to get out and fly and knows it 
can't. The fact that the bars which formed my cage were 
invisible made them no less real. I realized that something 
had happened inside of me when I married that had crippled 
me nothing, of course, that one could describe in words, 

I had no criticism to make of my wife. There was noth- 
ing in her actions to which I could object, and undoubtedly 
she was playing her part as a wife conscientiously. She had 
so many good qualities, and I am sure meant well for me 
all along the line. Her eyes were lovely, she was slim and 
neat, and walked with feet toeing in just a little. I liked that, 
as I have always liked any slight deviation from the norm. 
It doesn't always mean character, but it suggests it. She was 
fond of good fiction; her favorites included Howells's Rise 
of Silas Lapham, Olive Schreiner's Story of an African Farm, 
George Eliot's novels, and the stories of George Meredith and 
Thomas Hardy. 

Elizabeth, however, had no special interest outside of our 
home, as I had. She made friends and I accepted them, but 
she couldn't as easily accept some of mine. We doubtless saw 
too much of each other; and we lacked the spiritual replen- 
ishment that outside and separate friendly contacts would 
have given us. I was half conscious of this; but somehow I 
was unable to talk about it with Elizabeth. And I was fearful 
of those emotional explosions which so often come when the 
relations of a man and a woman have become strained; it is 
easier to remain silent. 

Searching back in my thoughts through the years of our 
life together, I would look for some point along the road 
where I might have taken some different course which would 
have made for happiness. But I could never find that point 
short of going back to the days when I was single, the days 
when I was not in constant fear of being thought selfish for 
thinking more of my work than of the household routine. 

My mind being troubled, my output suffered. And evi- 


dcntly the uncertain quality of my pictures was manifest to 
Brisbane, for at the end of five or six months he decided 
that we'd better end our arrangement. 

"But I want you to submit cartoons on a free-lance 
basis/* he said. "My door will always be open to you. I think 
you'll be happier free-lancing than tied down to an office 
grind. Not everybody is temperamentally fitted for that/' 

I wouldn't have quit voluntarily just then, for the hun- 
dred every week meant that I could take out life insurance 
and save money. Nevertheless, I felt a great relief when Bris- 
bane dropped me from the staff. It meant that Fate had made 
a decision for me. I walked to the elevated whistling. 

With my working hours no longer tied to an employer's 
time schedule, I now found it even more difficult than before 
to work at home. So I invented excuses to be away from our 
rooms a great deal. I had to see editors, and I had to go to the 
library to look up things. 

Very soon it became clear to both of us that the atmos- 
phere was too tense; we couldn't go on living together in 
those cramped quarters, though I wasn't sure that we would 
have been any better off in a ten-room house. 

So we separated. Elizabeth packed what belongings she 
needed, and I carried her luggage to a furnished room which 
she had taken nearby. There were tears in her eyes when we 
said goodbye, and I felt a bit tearful myself, but we said 
little, beyond wishing each other good luck. 

My brother Will, who had been watchful of our un- 
happy state, now asked me to come and live with him in his 
large one-room studio at 81 Fifth Avenue. He hoped and 
believed that our trouble would soon be adjusted. I readily ac- 
cepted his invitation. His quarters were in a fine old mansion 
with a beautiful massive stairway leading from the entrance 
hall to the second floor. It was that stairway more than any- 
thing else that had made Will want to live there. Boys from 
the farm, where simplicity is the order, are apt to be taken 
in by the appearance of splendor. Some rich family had lived 
in that house in earlier days, but in our time the first and 
second floors were occupied as a dancing studio by a then cele- 
brated teacher of the terpsichorean art named Koch. What 
had once been the grand ballroom on the second floor served 


for his larger classes and for occasional social affairs. Koch 
had leased the whole house and sublet the third and fourth 
floors to us tenants. 

Our studio had large windows looking out on a little 
back garden; an ornate marble mantle, a practical fireplace, 
and a washroom with cold water; and we had the use of a 
bathroom with hot water. Will had had a cushioned window- 
seat made for the wide back windows, and for sleeping facili- 
ties he had constructed what was probably the largest "cozy 
corner" in history, built around and over a box-couch wider 
than a double bed. 

The most bizarre India prints to be found in Vantine's 
were utilized for wall coverings, and for the canopy and 
side and front drapings, which were supported by antique 
spears and lances; and wherever possible a Damascus blade, 
a kriss, a medieval shield, or some other old-world war im- 
plement was hung. For fear that there might not be enough 
cozy atmosphere in these quarters Will had added some Civil 
War muskets and swords and Cuban machetes. No week went 
by without his bringing in a porcelain vase or other decora- 
tion to clutter up the space. On that massive couch was the 
most varied and numerous collection of sofa pillows that I 
ever saw. Several that my brother prized most were covered 
with fabrics that he had bought from the Waldorf-Astoria 
when that hotel decided on a new decorative scheme and got 
rid of its stock on hand. 

Other objects in this great room were a tall inlaid ma- 
hogany combination bookcase and writing-desk, a golden 
oak bureau, a green arm-chair, a willow rocker, and a mas- 
sive carved Flemish oak table and chair set a typical con- 
glomerate decorative scheme of the period. On the walls 
among the array of weapons were framed drawings which 
had illuminated Sunday World feature stories that Will had 
written, and originals done by the artists on the World staff; 
also drawings for the ''funnies*' of that era, by Dick Out- 
cault, George Luks, Anderson, Bryans (whose silhouette 
pictures were then popular) , Tony Anthony, Gus and Rudy 
Dirks, Joe Lemon, Walt McDougall; and illustrators such 
as Will Crawford (he made comics as well, but they always 
seemed too dignified and artistic to be classed as such) , "Hod" 
Taylor, Al Levering, and others. 


Of course a studio furnished so lavishly would be not at 
all to my taste now, nor to Will's, but I liked it then. The 
place was a refuge for me, and I could work again* 

Will was alert, got around a lot, as a seeing journalist, 
and frequently brought in new and worth-while people for 
me to meet. Or we met them in one restaurant or another 
where artists and writers gathered. At that time Will was 
on the Sunday World staff. 

He had come to New York late in 1894, ' 'absolutely un- 
wanted by any publication", as he recalls. After two long 
weeks of job-hunting he had been taken on as a reporter 
by the World (on the morning daily) at $15 a week. This 
wage didn't seem much of a compliment to him, for he 
couldn't forget that he was one of the founders of the Daily 
Cardinal at the University of Wisconsin, and that he had 
been news editor of the Madison (Wis.) Democrat and Madi- 
son correspondent for the Chicago Tribune and a Milwaukee 
daily. His combined income in Madison had been about $35 
a week. But he took that $15 job none the less, thinking of 
the "prestige" of working on a New York paper. 

He stayed a year in that poorly paid berth, then went 
to the New York Mercury, an old-timer that had just been 
rejuvenated by the injection of $200,000 in new capital; 
and lingered there until that money had been absorbed and 
pay-checks were held up, which took only about six months. 
Returning to the World, he was put on the Sunday staff at a 
time when Hearst had panicked the other papers by buying 
their editorial talent away from them. The rich man's son 
from California, who was still regarded by his New York 
rivals as an interloper, had induced Morrill Goddard, the 
World's Sunday editor, to move over to the Journal; Pulitzer 
had persuaded him to move back; and Hearst had raised his 
bid still higher, and got Goddard again, all in a single week. 

Tom McGill, creator of the comic strip, "The Hall-room 
Boys", which was credited with big drawing power in the 
continuing fight for newspaper circulation, also lived at 81 
Fifth Avenue when we did. And he lived in a hall-room, too, 
for that was before the years of .big money for the comic 

Saturday Evening Post 

One of a series of Old Home Town types used in the Lorimer weekly. 


In the spacious front room on our floor were Gordon 
Grant, then and ever since a natural composer of pictures and 
a fine artist withal, and his roommate, Jack Haywood, a suc- 
cessful patent attorney, now dead. Haywood had social con- 
nections and he and the well-groomed. Grant gave tone to the 
place. They had a large organ in their studio, which afforded 
me much pleasure, for I would frequently go in and play on 
it, thinking of days back on the farm. I've done a lot of rest- 
ful day-dreaming while playing an organ or toying with the 
keys of a piano. 

Chuck Connors came to our studio several times with 
Will, though it was hard to get him to leave the Bowery and 
come to swell Fifth Avenue. It was Will who had discovered 
this character of the Chinatown district for journalistic pur- 
poses, and who had written the Chuck Connors stories in the 
Sunday World that had made the ex-newsboy a notable and 
led to his national fame. Will used Chuck as the mouthpiece 
for a wide variety of observations on passing events, and 
thus Chuck gained as much or more fame than Steve Brodie 
without going to the trouble of jumping off the Brooklyn 
Bridge into the East River. 

I remember the thrill I felt when I attended the first of a 
series of Chuck Connors balls in the old Tammany Hall on 
Fourteenth Street* This was rough and noisy, with beer 
flowing free, and music that may not have been so good as 
that in the Waldorf ballroom but was louder. The fun began 
during the grand march, when Chuck's lady friend, known 
in Chinatown as "The Rummager", had her train stepped 
on and torn off. She spent the rest of the evening in a box, 
where she slept off the effects of too much liquor. On the 
program I noticed the typical Connors language, which de- 
scribed a waltz as "Grab a rag and twist." 

When my old friend the late Walt McDougall wrote his 
sprightly autobiography, This is the Life, he reproduced the 
names of some of the members of the "Chuck Connors Club", 
the purported sponsor of one of those balls. Walt had found 
a program of the event printed in Moss's "History of New 
York", with George Francis Train, billed as financial secre- 
tary, and with the club members including: R. F. Outcault, 
Walt McDougall, Al Smith, Mickey Finn, Charley White, 


Steve Brodie, Roland B. Molineaux, Timothy D. Sullivan, 
Oscar Hammerstein, James J. Corbett, and Bob Fitzsimmons. 

"Judge Moss seems to regard the list of members as au- 
thentic and representative", McDougall wrote, "but his 
judicial acumen should have enabled him to perceive that 
this was Connors' method of attracting the elite to his low, 
coarse, and quite disreputable function." 

But the formation of that "club" on paper was not the 
handiwork of Mr. Connors, the "mayor of Chinatown/' It 
was my brother Will who conceived the idea of the Chuck 
Connors balls and directed the arrangements for them, coach- 
ing Chuck in the part he was to play. And Chuck was a 
responsive pupil. Will suggested the staging of those affairs 
in Tammany Hall because they made good newspaper copy 
and added to the gayety of the city. 

There was plenty of artistic stimulus at 8 1 Fifth Avenue 
and in restaurants, theatres, and bohemian centers which we 
visited around town. Will frequently had passes for shows, 
or was assigned to do a feature story about some situation 
which involved the gathering of a queer assortment of people, 
and often I went along, watching for both the serious and 
the humorous angles. 

For Brisbane was buying an occasional illustration for 
an editorial or for an article, while the comic periodicals were 
taking some of my joke pictures. And in that period, too, I 
sold some "Snapshots in Hades" drawings to Life and began 
a "Through Hell" series in the Cosmopolitan. John Brisben 
Walker was then publisher of the latter, and at his invitation 
I journeyed up to Irvington-on-the-Hudson, where he lived. 
Those Inferno scenes were subsequently incorporated in my 
second book dealing with the nether regions, which was called 
Through Hell with Hiptah Hunt. This was published by 
Clinton S* Zimmerman in 1901. 

Will went to Chicago in July, 1900, becoming Sunday 
editor of Hearst's Evening American there, taking charge of 
its editorial page, and also working on the editorial page of 
the morning Examiner, then under the direction of Charles 
Edward RusselL I remained in the studio alone, and there 
was a great sense of luxury in basking amid all those bargain 


treasures and having that spaciousness all to myself, in imita- 
tion of one who was wealthy. 

I was still a Republican when the 1900 national cam- 
paign came along, with McKinley and Roosevelt asking elec- 
tion with the promise of "four years more of the full dinner- 
pair*, duly featured on the front covers of Jadge and its 


t pen in 
of th royel famlys is humbugs & says if its true what he's heerd bout sum of them 

I mad? a speach in town hall here satday nite that shows you how the speerit that, 
stured.the boozums of our four-fathers haint ded yet as Toilers: 

Feller Citzens ; Sum famlys of ferrin lands has to be high up & others has to be 
low down. That's the way they been runnm things fer so long in them countries they 
dont kno no better. The Royel fcrnlys that got to the top of the lader of fame as the, 
poit says 2 hunderd yers ago is still up, & a good many on em wuld be keepin sloons 
er worktn in cheez factrys if the peeplc tuk a noshen to kick the lader out frum. under 
em. In Amenky the land of the free one man ono be az good az a nuiher & a blame 
site Beter if he fites fer his place & behaves hisself & has branes to back it. 

If the rich city peeple wunt to pay fer dressm up 2 or 3 tony fellers in velvet close- 
an sendin em over to a ferrin country fer to do plite bowin & scrapm front cf a. King 
thats a big gun caus his parunts wuz, wy let em do it but the U S. Congres & the pee- 

Josh Melhm. 


June 3 8th. 

Uncle Cyrus Whif- 
fle ts so's to he. round 
agin. Cyrus says they 



make auttymobiles 
Josh Mellun 82 

burthday tuesday fer 
las.t 9 yrs Josh has 
turned a. hanspring 

owin to a cowbunckle 

Theresa good d 

Ohio bout the way the 
country is goin crary 
over royelty 

Fust it wus that 
Princ Henery now its 
the King of England. 

Levi Kirxk leedin 
ciuen here says most 

Uncle Hiram lecture* his fellow-townsmen. 

pie of Davis Junction 
orto stick clost to the 
constitooshiui & rek- 
lect that this nashun 
haint founderd on A 
monarky & is Jest as 
much ftr- them that 

them that has. The 
cloait of glory thats 
reddy made & dont 
hav to be paid fer 
Egle. Cheers fer them 
that fites fer there 
fame but' not a. gol- 

that gets it fer ootb> 

Judge, 1900 

this character, I recall with shame now, in aiding the widespread campaign 
of ridicule which killed off the Populist party. 

allies. Still a victim of the old illusions. I had not yet learned 
to think my way to a clear understanding of realities. Now 
and then some of nay bourgeois beliefs had been shaken a 
bit by some ironic episode in the human struggle, or by some 
speech like that of Keir Hardie in Denver, but I clung to my 
inherited beliefs. 

That year I served the cause by writing and illustrating a 
series of articles for Judge under the general title of "Cam- 


painin for the Millenum", which purported to record the 
travels and speeches of Hiram Pennick, a Populist of a Don 
Quixote type, who was shown touring the Mid-West on a 
decrepit horse. With my pictures were alleged letters in which 
Mr. Pennick reported his progress in badly spelled words to 
the editor of Judge. 

He was for Free Silver and against Imperialism and the 
Trusts. In one speech he said: "We must bust the chanes that 
fasens us to the charyot, thats all made out of gold, when one 
wheel ort to be made out of silver/* In another he made this 
prediction: "When the smoke of battle is cleared away weel 
see the octipust (the Trusts) thets been chewin at the 
nashun's vitals ded as a herrin while over the hull scene the 
flag of Populism is floatin in a breez of victry/' 

Mr* Pennick was an elderly farmer. I showed him being 
met by committees of faithful party members, making 
speeches on street corners and in halls, and enlisting recruits 
after which the motley procession would move on to the next 
town. Thus I helped to kill off Populism by poking fun at it. 

Other cartoonists and writers used the slapstick on "Sock- 
less Jerry" Simpson, Representative from Kansas, who was 
reputed to be eccentric in his footwear, and journalistic winds 
fanned the whiskers of Senator Peffer of Kansas, also a Popu- 
list. And again the sandbag and bludgeon were used against 
Bryan. I had heard him shout: "You must not put the dollar 
above the man!" and I was beginning to feel that here 
was something to think about, even though I was helping 
McKinley and the big-money Republicans. 

Chapter 22 

IN December that year my brother returned to New York 
to be married on New Year's Eve and to have a brief 

honeymoon. His bride was Adelaide Oehler, whose father 
had a shoe store at Sixth Avenue and Eighteenth Street. I 
felt that they were well matched. Anyway Adelaide was good 
to look at. 

Both were evidently happy, and they became anxious 
about my lone state of existence. Several close friends, too, 
had been worrying about that. They seemed to think it 
wasn't right for Elizabeth and myself to remain apart. In- 
deed I suddenly found myself the center of a private domestic 
relations conference, in which I was urged to rejoin my wife 
and "try it again/' Adelaide, Will, and Mr. and Mrs. Win- 
field Scott Moody held that our separation was simply due 
to some lack of understanding which could be righted if both 
of us would show a give-and-take spirit. 

They all painted a rosy picture of possibilities. At first 
I was skeptical, but in the face of their well-meaning concern 
I didn't want to be stubborn. They offered to go and talk 
with Elizabeth, and endeavor to smooth the way for a recon- 
ciliation; afterward I suspected that the Moodys had already 
talked with her. Anyhow, I agreed; I let myself be optimistic, 
and I was ready to meet Elizabeth half-way. As a result of 
all this we were reconciled (sentimentally at least) to the 
obligations of the marriage certificate. Then we moved into 
a studio apartment on West Twenty-first Street. 

At the time of our reunion we had not discussed nor even 
admitted the existence of any differences between us. We 
simply started all over again, with a, sincere effort on both 
sides to avoid serious misunderstandings. Elizabeth was 
thoughtful of my sensibilities, and I of hers, and I got along 
>vell with my work. 



When warm weather came we went to Leonia, New Jer- 
sey, where we found a vacant barn to live in, within shouting 
distance of Peter Newell's home. New and dry and clean, 
this barn made a good dwelling for us* We shared it with 
Alfred Z. Baker (an artist whom I had known in Paris) and 
his wife. Baker was then contributing quaint animal draw- 
ings, signed B.B., to Pack. 

Elizabeth and Mrs. Baker occupied themselves by mak- 
ing the barn ready for housekeeping and decorating it with 
curtains and other feminine essentials. Baker and I had studios 
in New York and went back and forth daily. In the eve- 
nings we would often assemble in Newell's house, talk about 
our work, grow reminiscent over old days, quote poetry, 
have some music, and then back to the barn. 

Peter Newell was one of my favorite interpreters of the 
homely characters of American life Negroes, farmers, and 
various types of simple folk. He also did many drawings of 
a curiously imaginative flavor and a quaint humor. His pic- 
tures were drawn for the Harper publications. A likeable, 
religious, homey fellow from Illinois. In some Valhalla get- 
together of artists, I want to see that tall, lanky man smile 
at me and say: "Welcome, Art! . . . As we were saying " 

After the summer near Leonia, we moved into an apart- 
ment house called the Corona, at Ninety-Ninth Street and 
Riverside Drive. Here I settled down to work with a fairly 
free mind. After all, I thought, maybe I'm adjusting myself 
to married life. But this new equilibrium was upset when 
Elizabeth announced that she was going to have a child. She 
had known it for some time, and had been hesitant about 
telling me. 

I tried to seem cheerful but I wasn't. All the old feel- 
ing of being caught in a net came back. Of course I couldn't 
quarrel with Elizabeth about her condition, nor blame her. 
Thinking about the whole situation, in the streets or lying 
awake in the dark at night, I knew that any friend would 
say that I had gone into marriage with my eyes open; and 
that it was customary for married people to have children. 
But I was more and more unhappy (and not proud as any 
normal man should be) , as the date for Elizabeth's confine- 
ment approached. 

The cry of a new-born child! * . . Yesterday there were 


two of us now there are three. What a thought to have 
pounding against the walls of my mind! In Riverside Park 
I pushed a baby carriage and I really liked the baby, whom 
we had named North. I like all babies to look at, but not 
to push. And yet the experience was a good thing. Every 
man ought to go through with the duty of pushing a baby 
carriage for one^ summer at least. This new son of mine was 
a good-natured child, who in due time cooed at the passing 
steamers on the Hudson and was not afraid of dogs. But the 
sight of the steamers made me moody. They were all going 
somewhere, up the river to Albany or southward down the 
coast, and I was chained here to one place. Would I ever get 
a chance to travel again? To escape from such thoughts I 
would go back to my drawing board and plunge into the 
making of pictures. 

And now I found a new means of escape lectures and 
libraries. Both enabled me to get away for a little while from 
my discontented thoughts because of loss of freedom through 
wedlock. Lately I realized anew that my education was inade- 
quate. So many questions came up that I couldn't answer, 
and I needed to fortify myself with such answers. By listen- 
ing to the lectures and reading a wide variety of books I 
nursed the seed which had been planted in my mind by Keir 
Har die's speech in Denver, and by Myron Reed's discussions 
of the human struggle there. 

England was fighting the Boers, and my sympathies were 
with the weaker nation of bearded Dutchmen who were put- 
ting up such a courageous fight to preserve their independence. 

Speakers for the Social Democratic party provided me 
with much food for thought. They attacked the whole capi- 
talistic system, showed how its different units combined to 
exploit the producing masses to the nth degree, and how the 
press distorted or suppressed news to protect this system, of 
which it was a part. Being loyal to the press, my first reac- 
tion to this denunciation was one of resentment, though I had 
to concede that some of the charges were true. 

I remembered hearing in Chicago, in talks among the 
reporters, of department store elevator accidents in which 
people were killed, and not a paper printed a line about it. 
I recalled instances of news stories which I knew were far 
from the truth, written to order to carry out a newspaper's 


policy. How much justification, if any, was there for the 
Inter-Oceans attacks on Altgeld, in which I had played an 
active part? Altgeld's administration as Governor had been 
creditable in many ways, I could see now; he had taken the 
side of labor, and had achieved numerous reforms. 

It must have been about this time that I first heard Eugene 
Debs speak. He was facing an audience which packed the 
Academy of Music. On that same stage Henry Ward Beecher 
had stood and upheld the cause of the Democratic party in a 
tense campaign. Some one interrupted with a rude question: 
"How about Cleveland and free love?" This of course re- 
ferred to the affair of the candidate for the Presidency with 
Maria Halpin. And Beecher answered: "Let him who is 
without sin cast the first stone/' 

I had been greatly interested in seeing Debs, for I had 
read and been told much about him of his fearless leader- 
ship in the railroad strike of 1894, his term in jail ^ as a 
consequence, and his fighting spirit. But I was disappointed 
that night not by what he said, but by his manner. I 
thought him too much like a school-boy elocutionist. 

In after years, however, I attended several mass-meetings 
at which Debs was the main speaker, and he who had once 
been amateurish had become a real tribune of the people and 
a master of chastisement of the profit pharisees. No question 
about it an inspiring man because he was himself inspired. 
He was emotional, and used the logic of understanding born 
of long experience with workers. When one heard him voice 
a natural sympathy for the enslaved, one felt that here was 
a champion who would go to the stake rather than sacrifice 
his own beliefs. 

Listening to lectures on the class struggle (after I discov- 
ered that such a struggle had been going on for ages) , I found 
that I had a great deal in common with the everyday work- 
ers. In other years I had felt that as a newspaper artist I 
was a member of a profession which enjoyed important privi- 
leges and in which a man might possibly rise to fame and 
fortune. But I saw now that everyone who did productive 
work of any kind was at the mercy of those who employed 
him* They could make or break him whenever they so willed. 
... I was living in a world morally and spiritually dis- 
eased, and I was learning some of the reasons why. 


When McKinley was shot down by Leon Czolgosz in 
September, 1901, and important newspapers suspected an 
Anarchist conspiracy, I found myself analyzing their asser- 
tions. The police rounded up a lot of Anarchists with a great 
deal of publicity, but found no evidence of such a plot. Mean- 
while the New York World laid the blame for the assassina- 
tion directly to William Randolph Hearst because of the 
editorial attacks in his papers on McKinley. One of those 
editorials said that "if bad institutions and bad men can be 
got rid of only by killing, then the killing must be done/' * 

But I believed then, and time has strengthened my belief, 
that accusing individuals of being accessories to, or instigators 
of, murder because they wrote or said something which might 
have planted homicidal thoughts in a culprit's mind was 
stretching legality to the last degree of absurdity. And law 
is absurd enough without dragging in "suspicious" influences. 
Many a man and woman has been accused of being an ac- 
cessory before the fact because he or she rented a room to a 
murderer, or was seen talking with him three weeks before 
the deed. The logical end of such net-work finesse in get- 
ting evidence would be to arrest the slayer's father and mother 
who brought him into the world and indict them as accom- 

Joseph Pulitzer was "wild and impetuous" in his youth, 
and was assailed by newspaper foes as holding "anarchistic 
beliefs"* Nor was he tame in attacking public men. There 
was not much sweetness and light in his thoughts when he 
felt it necessary to condemn men in positions of high responsi- 
bility. Turn, for instance, to an editorial in the World for 
September 3, 1913. It was about that time that the directors 
of the New York, New Haven, and Hartford Railroad had 
been through a Congressional investigation, and President 
Charles S. Mellen of the New Haven and the Rockefeller- 
Morgan interests, who controlled the stock, were accused as 
the arch-criminals who had got away with the loot and had 
ruined thousands of stockholders. And to make matters worse 
there was a frightful wreck in New Haven, the White Moun- 
tain express ploughing through a Bar Harbor train and killing 
and injuring many passengers. The World editorial said: 

* New York Journal, April 10, 1901. 


4 'No Rockefeller is ever killed in any of the wrecks of the New 
Haven Railroad. 

"No Morgan is ever killed. 

"No director is ever killed. 

"None of the bankers who have bled the system white is ever 
killed. . . . 

"This is Wall Street's wreck, and the blood of the victims is 
on the hands of the highly respectable financiers who for their 
own profit have converted a great railroad system into a shambles/' 

But no maimed victim of that wreck who may have read 
the World editorial took a pot shot at any one of the highly 
respectable men mentioned. 

With like indignation Pulitzer lashed out at John D. 
Rockefeller Jr. after the Ludlow massacre in Colorado, 
when the miners employed by the Colorado Fuel and Iron 
Company were on strike. On April 23, 1914, the World said: 

"Mr. Rockefeller recently testified that he was willing to sink 
his entire investment in Colorado rather than yield to the demand 
of his employees that they be permitted to organize. 

"He has not sunk and he does not intend to sink his entire 
investment, but he has debauched an American commonwealth, 
and the blood of women and children is on the hands of his bar- 
barous agents, private and public/' 

In quoting these as samples of the inflammatory charac- 
ter of newspapers, I am merely pointing out the guilt of those 
who perhaps thought themselves innocent like Pulitzer 
but there were many editors who let loose at times with 
innuendo or sensational anger as they saw fit. No one con- 
nected with the big dailies, however, so far as I know, was 
ever prosecuted as Albert Parsons of the Alarm was in the 
Haymarket case when some violent crime followed an edi- 
torial outburst. But the Alarm was a small radical weekly, 
and not a large daily upholding the capitalist system. 

Perhaps no editor has been so guilty of stirring up the 
baser passions of human beings as Hearst. Often in his early 
years as an editor and publisher, he did some political arous- 
ings on the side of the workers. It helped him get circulation. 
Gradually, however, he evolved a policy which prevailed 
over all liberal doctrines that he might advocate devoting 
his publications to the will of the big moneyed interests to 


have and to retain everything that they possessed and to 
insure their hopes of getting more through their "superior 

But to hold him responsible for the killing of McKinley 
because of a bitter editorial, a poem, and Frederick Opper's 
cartoons of "Willie and his Papa" (Willie being the Presi- 
dent and Papa being Mark Hanna, both favorites of the big, 
overfed trusts) was far-fetched. 

Altgeld died in Joliet, Illinois, after collapsing at a pro- 
Boer mass meeting, and 50,000 people moved sadly past his 
casket in the Chicago public library; many of those thou- 
sands had stood for hours in the rain waiting to do him 
honor. The changed tone of the press toward this man was 
amazing; newspapers which had been the most inimical to 
him now lauded his deeds without indicating that they had 
reversed themselves. Among his former enemies which now 
spoke well of him were Harper's Weekly and the Nation. The 
latter at that time had not yet come into liberal hands. This 
was in 1902. 

There was an Altgeld memorial meeting in Cooper 
Union, the place being packed to the doors. Many notables, 
of all shades of political opinion, paid tribute. Emphasizing 
the Haymarket case as the high light in his career, the 
speakers lauded the courage of the little man who had dared 
to antagonize the press and the courts and to do all that lay 
within his power to correct a terrible wrong. 

Many well-meaning persons who had thought the Chi- 
cago Anarchists guilty or who, like myself, had wavered in 
their attitude toward the accused men, now found occasion 
to read or re-read Altgeld's Reasons for Pardoning 
Fietden, Neebe, and Schwab. This message was now avail- 
able in most big libraries, in pamphlet form. I had read it, 
in substance at least, at the time of the pardons, but it was 
overshadowed then by the prejudiced interpretations of hos- 
tile newspapers. 

Considering it in 1902 in a calm environment, I could see 
the real values in Altgeld* s presentation of the Haymarket 
affair. He showed, with ample documentation, that the eight 
defendants were convicted by a packed jury; that they were 
never proven guilty of the crime charged (conspiracy to com- 


mit murder) ; that no evidence had ever been produced to 
show who threw the bomb, and that there was no proof that 
the defendants had had any connection with that crime. 

The Governor also pointed out that at the close of the 
prosecution's evidence, Stated Attorney Grinnell admitted 
to Mayor Harrison that he did not think he had a case against 
Neebe, but that his associates objected to dismissing him 
because it might influence the jury in favor of the other de- 
fendants; and that all the circumstances indicated that the 
throwing of the bomb was an act of some unknown person 
who was taking his revenge against the police for their wan- 
ton clubbing and killing of workers. 

Altgeld brought out the point that this jury was not 
chosen in the usual manner, by drawing names out of a box, 
and thus getting a selection from the general voting public. 
Instead Judge Gary had appointed a special bailiff to go 
out and summon any men he liked. And a prominent busi- 
ness man who was summoned attested that this bailiff said 
to him, in the presence of others: "I am managing this case, 
and know what I am about. These fellows are going to be 
hanged as certain as death, I am calling such men as the 
defendants will have to challenge peremptorily and waste 
their time and challenges. Then they will have to take such 
men as the prosecution wants/' 

The court records, scanned by Altgeld, showed that many 
of the talesmen said they had been pointed out to the bailiff 
by their employers, to be called as jurors. Many of them 
declared they believed the defendants guilty, then each was 
examined by Judge Gary "in a manner to force him to say 
that he would try the case fairly". Even a man related to one 
of the policemen killed by the bomb was passed by the judge 
as competent. Several of the jurors who were eventually 
chosen to serve, after the defense had exhausted its challenges, 
"stated candidly that they were so prejudiced that they could 
not try the case fairly/' Altgeld found, "but each, when 
examined by the court, was finally induced to say that he 
believed he could try the case fairly upon the evidence/' 

Documents cited by Altgeld included the interview with 
former Police Chief Ebersold published in the Chicago Daily 
News in 1889 which told of Captain Schaack's desire "to 


keep things stirring", of his wanting "bombs to be found 
here, there, all around, everywhere/* 

"It is further shown here/' the Governor stated, "that 
much of the evidence given at the trial was a pure fabrication; 
that some of the prominent police officials . . . not only ter- 
rorized ignorant men by ... threatening them with torture 
if they refused to swear to anything desired, but that they 
offered money and employment to those who would consent 
to do this/' 

Reading and weighing all this, and recalling what Altgeld 
suffered, I felt a deep sense of shame for my part in the news- 
paper assaults upon him. I took a new view now of his oppo- 
sition to Cleveland's sending federal troops into^Chicago in 
the 1894 railroad strike, when neither the mayor nor sheriff 
had asked for soldiers. On the Inter-Ocean I had been in- 
fected by the widespread indignation against the strikers for 
"interfering with the United States mails" when they pre- 
vented trains from running. That had seemed sacrilege then. 
But, I asked myself now, was there anything more criminal 
in stopping the mails than in an employer cutting wages 
and shutting off the milk supply for a worker's children? 

And with this feeling, I poised in my mind some other 
questions as to the soundness of beliefs I had long held, based 
upon copy-book maxims drilled into one generation of 
American children after another: "Merit wins . . . Sur- 
vival of the fittest . . . You can't change human nature 
. . . The best people . . . The poor you have with you 
always * . ." and the whole long line of rubber-stamp 
moral precepts* What were these but glittering emblems set 
up by the moneyed class to serve its own purposes? Born 
bourgeois, my brain had been filled from infancy with the 
nonsense of super-patriotism, with the lily-white virtues of 
imperialism added in due time. I had harbored these Jfalse 
values because I didn't know any better. I had been a drifter, 
innocent and sheep-minded long enough. 

I was to get more light on the Haymarket case in later 
years from Charles Edward Russell, who covered the execu- 
tion of Parsons and his comrades for the New York World, 
and who subsequently spent several months on an assignment 
from that paper investigating to see if he could find any 
tangible evidence of the purported dynamite plots. 


"The truth is," Russell wrote in summing up the results 
of his work, "that Chicago was at no time in more danger 
of an Anarchist uprising, in more danger of an outbreak by 
violence, in more danger of destruction by dynamite, than 
any other American city was then and is now. . ; * Slowly 
the conclusion was forced upon me that the idea of an 
Anarchist conspiracy was purely a dream/' 

Altgeld has been widely quoted as saying, when he par- 
doned the Anarchists, that it would spell his political death. 
Yet when he died in 1902, the Inter-Ocean, which had fought 
him so ferociously (now no longer under Kohlsaat control) , 
said that "he left the Governor's office the most influential 
Democrat in the West, and with his bitterest opponents con- 
ceding his personal honesty and his political strength/' And 
Kohlsaat, in his memoirs, published in 1921, said that Alt- 
geld was the dominant figure at the 1 896 national Democratic 
convention, and that if he had not been foreign-born and 
thus ineligible for the Presidency, he would in all probability 
have been the nominee. 

Now that I was awakening to the realities of the eco- 
nomic struggle, I realized that I could no longer conscien- 
tiously deal with certain subjects in the way that editors 
wanted them handled. I had ideas for pictorial attacks on 
institutions hooked up with the money power, but there was 
no sale for these. The few papers which dared strike at the 
system were small and had no money to pay for my prod- 
uct* And I had to live and support a family. 

Where was I headed? I didn't quite know. I had talent, 
facility, and a desire to produce but steadily my market 
was diminishing. I fell back on illustrated jokes, and even 
here struck a snag. Tramps were no longer so funny to me 
as they had been. And my attitude toward the farmer had 
changed I no longer wanted to depict him as a mere comic 
character. His life was all too often bound up with tragedy. 
The Populists had been right in many of the things they had 
said about the farmer's plight. 

To be sure, my farmers of the Hiram Pennick series were 
not the straw-chewing by-heck type made familiar by the 
caricaturist Zim, but came from my sketch-books. They were 
the folks that I was raised among out in the Middle West, 


but it was ridicule none the less of men who tilled the soil 
around Monroe, and in other farm sections I had visited. 
I had had the temerity to have Hiram Pennick date one of 
his Campainin for the Millenum letters from Oneco town- 
ship in Illinois, where I was born. 

The circulation of Judge in this Presidential campaign 
was enormous it penetrated to all parts of the country. If 
I should go home again, I reflected, and should meet any of 
the farmers there, I would have to explain that it was all 
done in fun; but would any of them believe that? I wrote 
a letter to a friend in Wisconsin, enclosing a sketch of my- 
self arriving home and being pursued by farmers with pitch- 
forks ready to lunge at me while I tried to explain. 

Letters and news clippings sent by my father told of the 
campaign Robert M. LaFollette was making to be re-elected 
as Governor of Wisconsin. That gave me an inspiration. I 
was a bit tired of New York, and needed a change in order 
to take new reckonings and re-shape the course of my work- 
ing life. 

LaFollette' s friend Isaac Stephenson had established the 
Milwaukee Free Press chiefly, if my memory is correct, to 
back the Governor's political program. I wrote volunteering 
my services as a cartoonist during the critical weeks of the 
contest, asking only that my railroad fare both ways be paid. 
This offer was accepted, and I immediately left New York 
and got into the fight. After a conference on strategy with 
the Free Press editors, I went on to Monroe to visit with my 
folks and sent my cartoons by mail. 

My appearance had an effect upon the enemy which 
amused me greatly. The Milwaukee Sentinel, principal 
mouthpiece for the "Stalwart Republicans", a rival faction 
in LaFollette's own party, published a long editorial about 
"the desperate situation" of the LaFollette following indi- 
cated when the campaign committee "had to hire a high- 
priced cartoonist to help." But evidently it was his foes that 
were desperate, judging by the amount of abuse hurled at 
him, especially by the Stalwart crowd. 

To that effort in LaFollette's behalf I gave everything 
I had. I believed that he represented the honest Americanism 
which flowed from the pioneers. He was for the farmers, 


whether Swedes, German, Swiss, Irish, or what; and for the 
industrial workers, native and foreign-born alike. His record 
was replete with activity in the interests of both. As District 
Attorney, as Representative in Congress, and as Governor, 
he had served intelligently and conscientiously. 

Speaking at county fairs, chautauquas, and other gather- 
ings all over the state, he showed up the rottenness in his 
own party, exposed appalling inequalities in the Wisconsin 
taxing system, and the vital importance of public supervision 
of railroad rates. And now he won re-election as he had 
won all previous contests for public office. All the mud- 
slinging had failed to stop him. 

Chapter 23 

MY wife and I both stemmed from healthy stock. And 
yet I always had foolish misgivings that our chil- 
dren might be born with some kind of a handicap 
blindness, or a lesser affliction* Out west they used to tell a 
lot of stories about Abraham Lincoln, a good many of them 
raw, of the variety known as "men's stories/' Some of them 
were undoubtedly inventions. But I recall one that to me 
seemed true to his quaint humor and imagination. When he 
had a law office in Springfield and his wife was expecting 
their first baby, Abe went over to his home to be near during 
the event. On his way back to the office, a friend who had 
heard the news hailed him and asked for more information, 
and Abe answered: 

"It's a fine boy. ... I was afraid it might have one 
of my long legs and one of Mary's short ones. But it's all 

Another baby was scheduled to arrive late in 1904, and 
Elizabeth's sister Kate came on from Wisconsin to live with 
us and help take care of our growing family. We needed 
more room, and moved into a larger apartment (five rooms 
instead of four) at 936 West End Avenue, near where Broad- 
way joins that thoroughfare around 107th Street. 

Our second son, Donald, was born in December. Again 
Elizabeth was pleased, saying: "Now North will have a play- 
mate/' And Kate was elated. To me this addition to the 
household spelled another problem, although I was glad to 
see such a fine body of a boy. This meant being even more 
obligated to tread a path of duty. Friends congratulated 
me, and spoke of the "proud father", making jokes more 
or less humorous, mostly less. Of course I responded with a 
synthetic smile, and handed out the customary cigars. How 
many men who have not discovered how to make a con- 
tinuously good income are really proud fathers? Yet some- 



how, as the months went on, I managed to pay rent and 
grocery bills, although more of my drawings had lately been 
rejected than in the past. 

Admittedly Don was a handsome and inspired looking 
infant. (My portrait of a youngster often reproduced with 
the caption, "Every child is a genius until forced to surrender 
to civilization/* is Don at the age of three.) But that didn't 
lessen my gloomy thoughts. 

I worked harder than ever now, and increased my efforts 
to sell pictures. Constantly, too, I was reading history and 
economics, to improve my understanding of causes behind the 
human struggle. No longer could any defender of the prevail- 
ing system tell me that there were no social classes in this 

One evening I had been reading in the Cooper Union 
library. On my way out I passed a large room off the main 
hallway, from which I heard the voice of some one making 
a speech. I stopped to listen. Certain sentences in the declama- 
tion interested me, and I quietly edged into the room. Here 
were young men of varied races and many nationalities learn- 
ing to talk in the English language on the issues of the hour. 
The instructor would sum up the merits and defects of the 
speakers as to good English, construction, delivery, and all 
that makes for effective speaking in public. 

I decided then and there to become a member of that free 
night- class in parliamentary law, oratory, and debate in this 
institution founded by Peter Cooper. I had read about this 
great American philanthropist who had "queer" ideas of re- 
forming our national currency and who was one of the first 
of the Greenbackers. Whether he was right on the money 
question I do not know. But his idea of free education for 
all who wanted it seemed sensible to me. And today I would 
have less excuse for my attacks on the educational system 
if colleges were free and democratically administered. 

For a long time I had felt the need of learning to think 
and speak on my feet. When I drew a cartoon on some con- 
troversial theme, and an editor rejected it and said it was 
illogical, I was usually unable to argue against the objections. 
But Cooper Union, I was certain, would show me how to 
defend my point of view* 



Some of the sessions on debate nights brought me great 
illumination, stirred me deep within, made clear what was 
valid evidence in support of contentions on one side or the 
other of a vital question. My early efforts at argument in 
class were awkward, but I persisted. Soon I realized that 
an essential thing in debate was preparation. Often the con- 
tests on the floor had the aspects of a battle each con- 
testant determined to win. Many times our instructor had to 
pound with the gavel and say: "Come now, you are getting 
angry. Anger will defeat you/' 

And as I went along with my reading and debating I 
became increasingly conscious of widespread social injustice. 
All the veils of illusion were being stripped away from the 
thing called civilization, and I saw what a shameful tribute 
man. must pay to her whom John Swinton called "the bitch 
goddess Success/* I had no desire just to be a fluent talker 
like a lawyer, politician, or salesman. I, too, was seeking 
success, but it would have to be of a kind consistent with my 
way of thinking. 

Throughout this course in debating I would always take 
the side which seemed to me right if for no other reason 
than that I couldn't argue convincingly on the other side. 
I was sure that the Cooper Union training was going to help 
me at least in ordinary controversies. And I was now coming 
to the conclusion that I would no longer draw cartoons which 
illustrated somebody else's will. Henceforth it would be my 
own* way of looking at things^right or wrong, I would 
figure things out for myself. If success came, well and good; 
but to win at the price of my freedom of thought that 
kind of success was not for me. Though I perceived that 
much of life was compromise, in dealing with world affairs 
or with my own, I would have to sink or swim, holding on 
to my own beliefs on questions of vital importance. 

More and more was I aware that I was totally unfitted 
for married life. I could not adjust myself to the routine of 
domesticity. There was a feeling always that I was shut in 
that I didn't belong to myself. I missed my old solitude, the 
easy-going way of having my meals any time I wanted to, 
of going to bed at any hour and getting up when I liked 


unless there was special reason to arise early to do some 
drawing for which an editor was waiting. Day after day this 
kind of living annoyed me. Why must I stop for lunch at 
twelve o'clock if I happened to be right in the swing of 
an absorbing cartoon? To be courteous? Which comes first 
I kept asking myself dutiful domesticity, or draftsman- 
ship and dreams? 

In our family relations I seldom protested, for 1 pre- 
ferred at all costs to avoid a scene. Outwardly everything 
was all right. There was something so ridiculous in bicker- 
ing about the jarring trivialities while living together in a 
state that had been blessed, certified, stamped and sealed for 
all time. I could show anger over issues like government and 
religion, but not at the pin-pricks of everyday life. 

Yet these things continually irked me, and left scars, and 
I was envious of artists who could 'let go" when their emo- 
tions got pent up, who could raise hell if interrupted at their 
work by foolish questions or if blamed for something they 
couldn't help. I even suppressed my whims (harmless enough 
I am sure) , if I thought they would upset the daily round of 
married life. But if others felt their whims had the right of 
way I made no objection. It ought to be said here, however, 
that I was never a victim of nagging. Nevertheless there was 
deadly discord and I had not found the key to harmony. 

What with this continued repression, the struggle to make 
both ends meet, and the feeling that the freedom I knew as a 
young man was dying from neglect, I was on the verge of 
becoming a hopeless neurotic, and that should be avoided at 
all costs for I was the provider for my family. I felt that 
I was living a grave mistake. But married life seemed all right 
for some artists why couldn't I make the necessary adjust- 

Uppermost was the thought that I ought to resign myself 
to wedlock at all costs. Was it not the natural and accepted 
relation of man and woman? And above all things I ought 
to keep the tradition of the Young and North families invio- 
late, for most of them knew how to marry, stay married, 
and be contented. Such was the hold of a conventional up- 
bringing and I fought day and night to keep contrary 
thoughts out of my mind* 


Spring came again, with fine weather, new ideas, new 
stimulus, and the pressing conclusion that the city environ- 
ment was all wrong. Cities crushed people's souls. All these 
monolithic piles of brick and stone, these hard pavements, 
the nerve-tearing noise, made it a torture chamber an in- 
ferno. Certainly New York streets were no proper place for 
children. They were entitled to better surroundings in which 
to grow up. The country might be the solution of my own 
problem and Elizabeth's. For I was not blind to the fact 
that she had a problem. 

I began day-dreaming about open roads and fields the 
soil, rippling streams, and the sunshine as I knew them in 
boyhood. If only I could go barefoot again, wade in a creek, 
and feel the cool touch of plowed ground. If only I could 
let the warm sun soothe the back of my neck while I stood 
with naked feet on a grassy knoll, that would be the true 
polarity of health, sun and soil meeting in my system, and 
I would be well again mentally as well as physically. And 
to watch horses, cows, birds, and trees the thought of it! 
I had heard of crippled city horses that had pounded their 
feet on cobblestones for years being restored to usefulness 
by the cushioned pastures of the country. 

Too much city now for the country! Elizabeth and 
Kate both hailed the idea enthusiastically, and we began hunt- 
ing through the advertisements of farms for sale in the Sun- 
day papers, marking the likely ones. Then we took stock 
of the family finances. Elizabeth had some money available 
that had been left her by Uncle Len, and I had a few dollars 
remaining from the proceeds of sales to magazines. 

We inspected several of the farms offered, but all had 
something wrong with them they were too far from a town, 
or were on land too rocky, or had no good water supply, 
and all too often did not bear out the representations of the 
real estate dealer. 

But each time we fared forth hopefully. And one day 
we went to Connecticut to look at a place south of Bethel, 
two hours by train from New York. "Maybe this will be 
the one/' said Elizabeth. Mr. Platt, who lived a quarter 
of a mile from the farm we were going to inspect, and who 
was acting as agent for the owner, met us at the depot with 
a team and a two-seated buggy, and drove us out. We turned 


to the right at Shaker's Corner, and moved on along Chestnut 
Ridge Road which climbed amid enchanting wooded hills. 

The place we went to see comprised four acres of land; 
a gurgling creek which ran half-hidden through the brush; 
a two-story frame house badly in need of repair, with a 
cellar and attic; a good barn, painted red; and an orchard 
which was worth the price asked, just to look at. The land 
sloped "every which way", as New Englanders say. The 
house was on a higher level than the barn, with a plot of 
fairly even ground between which was suited to gardening. 
Back of the house was a trail leading upward to a huge gray 
boulder, not rounded by a million years of glacial rolling, 
but still with sharp edges and a pointed apex, as if it might 
have been tossed around no more than a few thousand years. 
On that summit one could stand in the breeze and survey 
the surrounding foothills of the Berkshires. There was a sense 
of isolation here, of protection from the tearing clamor of the 
outside world. I stood on that high rock a long time that first 
day, thinking and hoping. ... It was amazing how much 
ground- space there could be in four acres. And the area 
seemed even larger when I set out later to cut the grass and 
weeds with a scythe. 

We called on neighboring farmers to inquire about the 
history of this little homestead. Old Mr. Hickok, who lived 
dowa the road, said: "There hain't no better garden ground 
and no better well-water in these parts/' After climbing to 
the lookout rock again and feasting our eyes further on the 
whole prospect, we returned to Bethel, and went to the town 
clerk's office to look up the deed. That being clear, we paid 
Mr. Platt a few dollars to bind the bargain and said we'd 
bring the family up in a week and take possession. 

I felt happier that day than I had in ten years. And Eliza- 
beth was gay. It was a real holiday for her, away from the 
responsibility of caring for the children. She wore an attrac- 
tive light blue frock and a flower-trimmed hat to match, and 
seemed no older than when I came back from Colorado. 

Packing our belongings was no task this time; it was 
sport. During the week I visited several editors and boasted 
about my back-to-the-farm movement. I would be able to 
do better work in the country air, I was certain. On the 
strength of my glowing expectations I got orders for enough 


drawings to cover the expense of moving so our migration 
to Connecticut was made auspiciously* 

What did me the most good in all this was the hopeful 
feeling that I could find myself again out where there was 
an absence of confusion. In the city my real self was being 
rubbed out by the friction of conflicting thoughts. You don't 
know who you are unless you stand alone among the hills 
and trees. Hills and trees don't argue with you; they take 
you for granted* 

We all stayed for a few days in Mr* Platt's house, until 
our household goods arrived. They came by freight. I was 
much concerned about the piano and a large Swiss music-box 
which had been given to me by a Chicago friend but every- 
thing arrived in good order, and soon was moved up to our 
hill. For another day we were busy placing furniture, tacking 
down carpets, putting up curtains, and disposing of various 
little tasks. 

Then I took off my shoes and stockings, rolled up my 
pants, and reveled in the contact with grass and earth. North 
joined me, while his mother and aunt were in the house put- 
ting minor things to rights. Then we climbed to the big 
rock, and North was excited over being up so high above 
our house. Between us and the house the apple trees were 
in blossom, and the air was fragrant. We went down to the 
creek, which was beyond the barn, and North tried to catch 
frogs and minnows, which were always too quick for him. 
The barn was a lure, and we explored that, watching the 
doves which had cotes inside the south door; they had been 
thrown in with the farm. 

I did no drawing that day, for there were too many odds 
and ends to be done before we would be settled. But my brain 
was active with planning. I arranged to have Mr. Hickok 
bring his horse over and plow up the garden. In the evening 
I walked in to Bethel and bought seeds. Mr. Hickok would 
come the following week, we would plant the seeds as soon 
as the ground was ready, and I figured out from the directions 
on the seed-envelopes just how many days it would be before 
we would be eating our own vegetables. But something hap- 
pened that year so that the garden did not turn out well 
too much rain, or maybe it was drouth; I've forgotten which, 

As the days wore on I began to feel quite at home in the 


new environment* I remembered the cartoons I had promised 
the editors. I put my drawing table in the northwest room 
upstairs which looked out on a hill of apple trees. Picture 
production had begun again, and I could hear North at his 
play an d later at the supper table his reports of discoveries 
of insects and such queer things (to a city boy) that he had 
found down by the creek. He had captured a small turtle and 
had put several fireflies in a glass jar and was going to inves- 
tigate the mystery of their light. The quaint, genius-like 
observations of children as they voice them before they have 
been told what their elders think they know on any subject 
makes child-thoughts sound like the highest wisdom and 
hence are real poetry. 

After Hickok finished the plowing, a barefoot walk in 
the moist loam became a daily rite with me before breakfast. 
Then a footbath in the creek. If there is any greater thrill 
of health than this I have never felt it. And many times I 
climbed to the gray rock, inhaled deeply, and saw new scenes 
in the surrounding countryside; in changing lights and at- 
mospheres the beauties of the view were inexhaustible. 

When the vegetables began to show themselves, of course 
the weeds sprang up to beat them. I hoed earnestly then and 
with more interest than I ever had on my father's farm. But 
as weeks passed hoeing became a nuisance, and the crusade 
against weeds was one more lost cause. I busied myself in 
one way or another around the old house, giving an imita- 
tion of a carpenter. 

Then I found it convenient to set up a studio in the loft 
of the barn, where I could work without being disturbed by 
North's romping. Entrance to that was by ladder, and I 
installed a trap-door at the top to close myself off. Not much 
needed to be done to make that loft comfortable for me. It 
was dry, the roof being sound. And by leaving the wide 
hay-door open I could have good light by day and a view 
of the hills to the East that seemed often to change. After I 
had swept the hay-dust from the floor, Elizabeth contributed 
some small rugs so that the place wouldn't be too bare. 

My books were in the house, filling many shelves, and 
in the evenings I would be there, in what we then called the 
sitting room, reading while Kate and Elizabeth were busy 
with their own devices, perhaps crocheting, playing croki- 


nole, or telling stories to North. We three grown-ups would 
vie with one another to find amusing anecdotes in the maga- 
zines or newspapers that were worth repeating. Sometimes 
we would pop corn or have a candy-pull, as we used to back 
in Wisconsin. And the glee of North over these simple treats 
reminded me of my own childhood. 

In the fall I went down to New York to see editors, but 
stayed only overnight, and was glad to get back to the farm 
and the clean smell of earth, the early morning chorus of 
birds, the peaceful quiet of back roads. 

We had rural free delivery, with mail in the mornings. 
But frequently I would walk to the village, a mile away, late 
in the afternoon, to mail drawings before the postoffice 
closed. In the village I would talk with old-timers who had 
long since retired from whatever work they had done, and 
would ask them questions about local history. Being a good 
listener, I was willing to let them do most of the talking 
and often I would sketch them as they gave me the low-down 
on village happenings in the past. 

The best of their stories had to do with P. T. Barnum. 
That great showman, three times member of the state legis- 
lature, and mayor of Bridgeport, first saw the light of day 
in Bethel in 1810. The house in which he was born still 

When we moved to the Chestnut Ridge place, there stood 
in the center of the village in a triangular grass plot an ornate 
bronze fountain which Barnum presented to his home town 
in 1881. I have read his presentation speech, and seen photo- 
graphs of the occasion and for memory reflections, recalling 
names and incidents of his boyhood, I have never read a 
similar extemporaneous address to compare with it. 

"And now, my friends/' he said in closing, "I take great 
pleasure in presenting this fountain to the town and borough 
of Bethel, as a small evidence of the love which I bear them 
and the respect which I feel for my successors, the present 
and future citizens of my native village/* 

But there followed a good deal of criticism of the gift. 
Some said he "gave it to Bethel because Bridgeport didn't 
want it/* and others that "it took too much water to keep 
it going/' Still others who were suspicious that P. T. might 

CONNECTICUT CRIME AGAINST ART. Bronze fountain given by 
P. T. Barnum to Bethel, his home town. Razed by village authorities in 
1920 to make room for this atrocious war-statue. 

try to humbug them, opined that "like as not it hain't hronze 
at all." 

Unfortunately this heroic figure of a Triton blowing a 
horn with spouting dolphins arqund the base such a foun- 
tain as one sees in public parks in Europe, and which Barnum 
had had cast in Germany is no more. I think it sad that 
the village selectmen one day around 1920 had the fountain 
demolished. They said it was cracking and sold it to a junk 
dealer. Then what? In its stead they erected one of those 



libels on American youth, a big bronze male out to kill 
typical statue in American towns to commemorate the "war 
for democracy". If such memorials are intended to stimulate 
and revere heroism, they are jokes; but worst of all they are 
insulting to anyone with a sense of the artistic. The Barnum 
fountain had at least the merit of classic form. 

Passing the old cider mill near Shaker's Corner, and pro- 
ceeding north along Plum Tree Road for a couple of miles, 
one comes to a lane which leads to Ivy Island, the five- acre 
tract which Barnum's maternal grandfather, an inveterate 
joker, deeded to him at his birth. As young Phineas grew 
into boyhood, the grandfather and other relatives often re- 
minded him that he was "the richest boy in town/* Not 
until he was perhaps eleven did he get to see this fabulously 
valuable property of his. 

Then he persuaded an Irish farmhand, on a Sunday, to 
take him to Ivy Island. When they arrived at his estate, 
Phineas burst into tears when he discovered that it was just 
a piece of worthless swamp-land. He was chased by a black- 
snake, according to his recital of that disillusionment, was 
stung by bees, and sank to his waist in mire. . * . But many 
years later, when Barnum was buying Scudder's Museum in 
New York he blandly put up Ivy Island as part of the 
security and it was worth just as much then as it had been 
on the day when he first saw it. Today it is still worthless. 

Three miles north of Bethel lies Danbury, the county 
seat, an old circus town rich in memories. Barnum was a 
prisoner there for sixty days, in the old jail, still standing. 
As a young man he was publisher of the Herald of Freedom 
in Bethel, and got into trouble by criticising one Deacon 
Seeley editorially. Convicted of libel, he was jailed. But he 
had a good time during his confinement. The sheriff was a 
friend, and provided his guest with comfortable quarters on 
the third floor, where the windows afforded pleasing views. 
P. T. continued to edit the Herald of Freedom from his jail 
quarters, and when he was released a large delegation of citi- 
zens waited outside to welcome him. They put him into a 
carriage, drawn by plumed horses, and with a brass band at 
its head, a long procession escorted him through the principal 
streets of Danbury, and then home to Bethel. 

As an editor Barnum assailed slavery, and later as a leg- 


islator bore down heavily on the New Haven railroad. An 
ardent temperance lecturer, he fails to mention in his auto- 
biography, Straggles and Triumphs, that he had a brother 
Eben who was the town drunkard and who used to sleep off 
his jags sometimes on the grass plot where the Barnum fresh- 
water fountain was erected. 

When that work first appeared, a book agent invaded 
Bethel to solicit orders for it. He knocked at a certain door, 
and when it was opened by an elderly woman he launched 
into a description of the book's contents, saying that "every 
American" ought to know the story of P. T. Barnum's life. 

"Young man/* she said, "I know more about P. T. 
Barnum than you can ever get into a book. I'm his mother/' 

I learned during my early residence in these parts that 
Danbury and Bethel, which in a manner of speaking were 
for many years "all one place", had a historic background 
worth knowing about* Much of renown and interest beside 
the world's most famous showman is associated with these 

Over on Redding Ridge, I heard, there was a place where 
Gen. * Israel Putnam camped throughout a winter with his 
ragged soldiers during the American Revolution* It was only 
a few miles from my home, and one day I walked over and 
saw a serried half-mile stretch of camp-fire sites. Here were 
a lot of the old stones which encircled the fires around which 
the boys sang and cursed but knew with some degree of 
certainty what they were fighting for. That area has been 
conserved, and is now known as Putnam Park. 

Many Tories lived in this part of the state in Revolu- 
tionary years. One patriarch informed me that his grand- 
father told him that his father went to a church "right here 
in Bethel" one Sunday in those anxious days and after 
the sermon the minister said: "Now I'm going to ask all 
those who are for the cause of the Revolution to go out of 
the door on the left, and those opposed to go out on the 
right/' The old-timer didn't know what the count revealed. 
But it was one way of trying to find out who was for a 
monarchy and who for a radical change in government. 

Our nearest neighbor on the road south going toward 
Redding was Mr. Agnew, a good carpenter, who had built 


many houses in and around BetheL He would often stop at 
our gate on his way to and from the village, and was always 
ready to do odd jobs of carpentry. Sometimes he would work 
for hours and laugh it off when I tried to pay him. I don't 
like to think of it, but those men who enjoyed doing things 
for others with no thought of pay have mostly passed out 
of the scene to make way for the go-getters in all profes- 

Mr. Agnew had never been to New York City since he 
stopped there sometime during his service in the Union Army. 
One day he made up his mind to go in and visit a relative 
living in "the Bronix." When I next saw him I asked if he 
had been to the big city. He had for just one day. This 
was his story: 

"I went to visit my cousin in the Bronix. After dinner I 
thought Fd better take a look around the city. First I went 
to Grant's Tomb, and the folks told me I ought to look at 
Central Park so I went there and hung around till three 
o'clock. Then I decided I'd take the four o'clock train back 
to Bethel. Shucks! I don't suppose I seen half what there 
was to see/* 

In discussing the Civil War with Mr. Agnew, I speke of 
John Brown. He laughed and I suppose that laugh was 
the same kind that was heard in many places when Old 
Osawatomie was mentioned back in pre-Rebellion days. Then 
my neighbor said: 

"I seen him up in Torrington, where he was born. He'd 
been living and fighting out in Kansas, and folks said he 
came back to Torrington to buy knives and guns/' 

"What kind of a fellow was he?" I asked. 

"Crazy as a bed-bug/* said Mr. Agnew. 

One evening I was taking a walk on a back road. Appar- 
ently no one lived in that part of the countryside. But finally 
I came to a worn path which led to a weather-beaten shack 
by the side of a swamp. No sound except at intervals the 
croak of a frog and off in a dark grove a screech owl would 
shiver the doleful air in reply. In this scene of somber desola- 
tion, with the twilight almost gone, I saw a man sitting by 
the shack, I ventured over to him slowly* After the "good 
evening'' salutation I found that he was willing to have a 
little conversation, in the course of which I learned that he 


had lived in this same place "nigh onto thirty-one years/' I 
asked him if he had ever been to New York City. 

"Once/' he said. "There for three days but the place 
is too dang lonesome for me/' 

I made a picture with similar dialogue which was pub- 
lished in Life. 

Early in this century there was still some real farming 
in this region like that I had known out West. Not on such 
a large scale, of course, but small farms on which a hard- 
working man with a small family could live, provided he 
kept a cow, horse, chickens, and enough pigs for winter 
meat. Then it was possible to survive even in stony Connecti- 
cut; so if the worst came to the worst I figured I might be 
able to do the same on my four acres. 

But gradually as the years went by the sturdy American 
yeoman, not only in this state but all over the country, was 
giving up the idea of making a small farm pay or even assure 
a subsistence. The reason is well known to those who fol- 
low the trend of economic determinism* Some of these small 
Connecticut agriculturists had begun even around 1906 to 
see the futility of farming, so they would do their chores 
early in the morning and late in the evening devoting the 
interim hours to work in one of the many hat factories in 
Danbury and BetheL 

One fine day I was thinking what a great advantage it 
was to have escaped from scenes of debate, controversy, and 
taking sides that the quiet countryside was the right place 
to be away from it all when George Agnew, son of my 
neighbor, called. George said he had been asked by his fellow- 
workers in the Short hat factory to see me about an impor- 
tant matter. 

Would I serve as an arbitrator in a serious conflict be- 
tween the owner and the employees? 

He said my decision would stand, as both parties con- 
cerned had agreed to that. I was an outsider, so to speak, and 
would be impartial. He showed me several typewritten sheets 
explaining how much per dozen hats the workers had re- 
ceived under a previous contract, how much the boss would 
pay if another contract were drawn up if the workers 


would agree to this and that and other things and so on 
ad infinitum* 

After casually looking over this array of facts and fig- 
ures, I said: 'Tm willing to act as arbitrator, but frankly I 
can't be impartial. I'm for labor, first, last, and all the time/' 
But George was keen to have me serve in spite of my bias. 
So I read the document carefully and rendered my decision, 
pronouncing the workers' demands reasonable and justified 
according to contract* The decision was accepted all around 
and I was pleased to know that an outsider could do a little 
to help the cause of labor, if only to the extent of a few 
cents per day. 

During the years that I have lived near Bethel there have 
been repeated strikes and lockouts in the two towns a few 
flush months, then gloom for the rest of the year. 

But this once strong union sector of labor was de- 
moralized following a strike in 1902, when the D. E, Loewe 
Company, hat manufacturers in Danbury, sued the members 
of the local hatters' union as individuals for injury to the 
corporation's trade because of a boycott used to aid the strike. 
The suit was brought under the Anti-Trust Act. Backed by 
the National Manufacturers' Association, the Loewe com- 
pany claimed damages, and was awarded $74,000 by a jury 
in 1910, the law permitting it to collect as much as three 
times the amount of the award. Under this judgement the 
company attached the workers' homes and bank accounts 
if they had any to attach. 

Many sad stories are told around here of the desperate 
straits of those workers as a result of this ruthless assault, 
the obvious purpose of which was to break up labor unions 
in the United States for all time. Organized capital had de- 
cided that it would no longer tolerate organized workers. 
This was to be one of the final tests of strength. 

The judgement was appealed and carried from court to 
court. In 1915 the United States Supreme Court affirmed the 
jury's verdict, which entitled the plaintiff to take $222,000 
from the defendants which meant taking everything they 

But in this long-drawn fight the boycott persisted despite 
the Supreme Court, and Loewe himself lost his business and 
died a financial wreck, though he received a pension from the 


National Manufacturers' Association up to his death. It had 
used Loewe for its own purpose, and the courts did their 
part in upholding the right of capital to use any kind of a 
club to knock labor helpless. 

Chatting with the townsmen of Danbury and Bethel, I 
would sometimes meet up with one of the older generation 
who liked to talk about James Montgomery Bailey, "the 
Danbury News man," who died in 1894. When I was a boy 
out west "the Danbury News man" was known to everybody 
like Josh Billings, George W. Peck, and Bill Nye. It was 
pleasant to hear those who had lived when he was here in 
the flesh tell about him. 

"You know," said the veteran Ezra Judd, "Monty was 
in the Civil War. Got his reputation writing letters home to 
the Danbury Times some comical, some pretty darn sad. 
When he come back him and Tim Donovan got hold of a 
little money and bought the Times, and a few years later 
they changed the name to the Danbury News, and said they 
were going to keep politics out of it, and Monty began writ- 
ing about anything he wanted to. I've been 'round the old 
Danbury postoffice when they were mailing out the News; 
they used to say thirty thousand copies went out every week 
pretty good for a country-town paper." 

"What kind of a fellow was Bailey?" I asked him. 

"Great big six-footer good-looking never wore a 
neck-tie they say he had spells of the blues and would 
stay home drunk for a week. He liked children, but didn't 
have none of his own. Every time I saw him he had a big 
dog, sometimes two or three, with him. Everybody knew 
he'd help them if they ever got in trouble didn't care for 
money. Mr. Young, Monty Bailey was as fine a man as ever 
drew breath, and you can say that Ezra Judd said so." 

In my library I have one of Bailey's books, Life in Dan- 
bury, and Fm old-fashioned enough to enjoy the homespun 
humor of his time. Taking that volume from the shelf, I 
open it casually and see this one among the locals (which is 
typical of the Bailey manner of saying things) : 

"A Sharon man stole a peck of dahlia roots under the 
impression that they were sweet potatoes. He feels the decep- 
tion keenly*" 


Mark Twain made his home in Redding during the last 
six years of his life* This is the next railroad station three 
miles south of Bethel* Once I talked with him at an Illus- 
trators* Society entertainment in his honor in New York. I 
was then illustrating epigrams called * 'Shots at Truth" for 
Life, and I told him he ought to publish the sententious 
remarks of Puddinghead Wilson and other short passages 
from his writings. I don't know whether I had anything to 
do with it, but about a year later I saw a Christmas brochure 





of brief quotations from the works of Mark Twain, with 
emphasis on Puddinghead' s philosophy* 

There are many stories in circulation about Twain's life 
in Redding* He was becoming sick and depressed in those 
years. I asked Albert Bigelow Paine, his biographer, whose 
home was near the humorist's then, if his heart trouble (an- 
gina pectoris) was caused by his incessant smoking. Paine 
said; "It is not the cause, but it aggravates it/* 

Two thieves broke into Mark's house late one night 


when everything was still, and stole a bag full of precious 
silverware. They were caught next day, and their trial was 
subsequently held in the old schoolhouse in Redding which 
was used for the administration of justice. Louis Ohlweiler, 
the Bethel barber, went down to attend the proceedings. 
When he arrived, he told me, Mark was walking slowly back 
and forth in front of the schoolhouse and smoking a cigar. 

During the trial, the judge asked the author- of Hackle- 
berry Finn the date and approximate hour of the burglary. 
Mark drawled out an answer but the judge, after talking 
with the sheriff, said: "Mr. Clemens, I think you must be 
mistaken," and named a different date and hour from the 
official record. 

''All right, Judge/' Mark replied, "have it your own 
way. Fm always wrong. That's how I got my reputation/' 


THE experiment of going back to the soil did not work 
out as I had optimistically planned. As the months 
went on it became evident that there was an excess of 
conventional sameness in my life. Each day was too much 
like being on a treadmill. I had hoped that the new arrange- 
ment, in which I had more room to myself with less inter- 
ruption, and where my wife and her sister saw less of me 
would help to break the terrible restraint I felt as a man 
married. But try as hard as I could, even praying to the God- 
of-all-wisdom for guidance (a desperate manifestation of my 
troubled self) , I could not justify -my nature with marriage. 
I knew many artists who were married and apparently happy, 
and I blamed myself for being queer a non-adjustable, 
misfit egoist. Evidently I didn't belong among normal people. 

Day after day the situation grew worse. I was miserable, 
couldn't concentrate on my work and was turning out pic- 
. tures which I knew were far below my standard, and nightly 
I lay awake for hours. 

I realized now that daily contact with plowed ground, 
the blowing clover, trees and birds, and above all two bright 
children, couldn't save me. Fd have to tackle the world with 
a fresh outlook as I did when young free to be myself, even 
if wrong. I had no yearning for the gay life, and no woman 
was waiting for me in the background. I was simply no 
longer equal to the duties and courtesies of married life. Only 
through release from its conventional routine and binding 
exactions could I function as a provider for my family. 

It had become impossible to combine domesticity and 
creative work. I was capable of doing a small drawing now 
and then with some concentration and good results but sus- 
tained effort was beyond me under the existing circumstances. 

For some five years we had gone on with our second 
effort to live together in harmony, I did my best to have it 



succeed, and I am sure Elizabeth did. But the result was fail- 
ure. Now I was through. All I wanted was to be alone to 
continue my work. 

During all the harrowing conflict which went on within 
me, I felt that neither of us could be definitely blamed for 
what happened. We were in the grip of forces over which we 
had no control. Here were two natures, each the product of 
countless centuries of combining physical and emotional 
attributes and defects. With some other man Elizabeth might 
have been supremely happy, and he with her. Or if we had 
married in youth, when my love was strong and possessive, 
it might have turned out all right if. That word if. I made 
a picture which was published in Life of that word if as a 
huge rock in the turbulent sea which I titled "The Grave of 
Our Dreams/' Elizabeth seemed to see in clear outline the 
reality which confronted us, and did not try to fight it. 
Elizabeth, the sweetheart of my youth, now so far away, is 
my favorite heroine. What she went through in her years 
with me is her own untold story. 

An artist is one who can put himself in another's place. 
There is no art without feeling, and the better the artist the 
more intensely he feels. He is sympathetic and imaginative to 
a degree that makes him * 'queer" to the world of "normal" 
human beings. Seeing others in despair is his own despair. 

One thing I had learned through that long drawn out 
ordeal was this: When a revolution comes, whether in the 
life of an individual or of a nation, it is seldom justifiable to 
those who must endure the brunt of abrupt change. Some 
will say "it could have been avoided"; others that "I don't 
object to it, but to the way it was done"; still others deplore 
"the innocent sufferers." Oh yes, many sad things occur as a 
result of a vital change in private or social living. But often 
it is pride that is injured most. People who cannot see the 
true inwardness of our personal problems are apt to think us 
heartless for conduct that they see only from the outside. It 
may have required every bit of our moral courage, but for 
some other act requiring no strain of morals or ethics in the 
doing, we are thought heroic* 

I came back to New York and took a room in an office 
building rented out for studios on Twenty-fourth Street 


Under the same roof were John Cassell, the cartoonist; Jim 
Conde, picturesque illustrator of the Uncle Remus stories 
and other animal books; Philip Dillon, writer and dilettante 
in politics; and Morgan Robertson, then at the height of his 
production of sea stories. 

Jim Conde introduced me to one of the first stool-and- 
counter lunchrooms in New York, around the corner on 
Sixth Avenue. "Let's go over to Minx's/' he would say, 
"and sit on a stool like a frog on a lily-pad/' His favorite 
dish was rice pudding because you got so much for your 

My studio was up five flights. The elevator stopped run- 
ning at 6. There were 'bedbugs to fight on summer nights, 
and life was far from being one long sweet song but I 
accepted the hardships willingly as part of the price of my 
new freedom. 

The building in which we lived and worked had poor 
heating facilities. In winter it was hard to wield a pencil 
with freezing fingers. Late one cold December night I hap- 
pened to go to Jim's room. He had retired in a cast-off 
barber's chair, one of his studio accessories. Tilted back and 
fully dressed, with newspapers tucked in around him, he had 
arranged an electric light bulb so that it touched his chest. 
In his colorful language, he said: 

"By the billy-horned Moses! I had to figure out some 
way to keep warm on a night like this." 

In a short while after my return to the city the doors of 
opportunity were opening to me again just as in my youth, 
and I soon began to send money to Elizabeth. That had been 
my first thought. But I was now developing a hatred for all 
bourgeois institutions in addition to marriage, and trying 
hard to live up to my own ideas of right and wrong. Hence- 
forth no one could hire me to draw a cartoon that I did not 
believe in. This had become an obsession. 

Once I sent back to Life a check for a hundred dollars, 
though I needed it badly, because, after drawing a cartoon at 
John Ames Mitchell's suggestion, I decided that the idea ex- 
pressed in it was not true. Life had been attacking what it 
called the theatrical trust, contending that this combine was 
exclusively Jewish and that these Jews were crucifying the 
art of the drama. 


My picture showed a swooning woman, The Drama, 
nailed to a cross, with various Jewish men typifying the 
theatre owners looking on with delight. After the picture had 
been delivered to the office of Life by messenger I realized 
that it was untrue to my convictions. I asked myself: Why 
did I draw that cartoon? Why hadn't Life asked some other 
cartoonist to do it, who didn't bother his head about the 
ethics of ideas so long as there was money in them? I felt that 



the editor's suggestion had been conceived in a spirit of ani- 
mus against a race, and that idea I never could believe in. 

Anyone who believes something sincerely usually can 
make me believe it for a little while if he is a good talker, 
even if his idea is basically wrong, but when I think it over 
alone I discover that his thoughts were not mine at all. In this 
instance I knew I had been trapped by my own tendency to 
oblige. It is this tendency, plus the damnable coercion of 
economic need, that leads to the deterioration of creative 

When I told Mr. Mitchell that I was returning his check 


and that I positively did not want Life to publish that draw- 
ing he was a bit peeved, but said "All right, if that's the 
way you feel about it." And I said to myself: "That's the 
end of me as a contributor to Life," But I had thought the 
whole question through and was ready for anything* And I 
knew this: that I would not sell my talent to be used for 
anti-Semitic propaganda. Certainly commercialization of the 
arts was not by any means an exclusively Jewish sin there 
were plenty of old-family Americans and members of other 
races ready to sacrifice anything for profit. Then, too, I 
wanted to save such a tragic concept as a crucifixion for a 
cause greater than that of the drama and I was now con- 
vinced that it should be reserved for use in some stark crisis 
of the under-privileged, in general the poor and despised of 
earth, who were everywhere being nailed to the cross of profit 
at the behest of the moneyed interests. 

But that incident did not close Life's doors to me; on the 
contrary, as time went on, Mr. Mitchell seemed even more 
receptive to my work than before. Had it come to an argu- 
ment, however, I felt now that I could hold my own. Be- 
cause of the training I was getting in the Cooper Union de- 
bating class I was more and more able to justify my point of 

Despite Life's occasional anti-Semitic slant, its editor had 
reverence for that Jew whose other name is Christianity. In 
conversation with me Mr. Mitchell once said: "The average 
business man finds one great fault with Jesus; he thinks it too 
bad that he wasn't practical/' 

"That would make a strong cartoon/' I answered. "A 
picture of a group of business men calling Christ to account 
for being an impractical man/' 

He told me to go ahead and draw it. I did, and he voiced 
his approval and sent a prompt check in payment. Yet I could 
see that his sense of good taste was a little upset by the finished 
drawing. Week after week I watched the pages of Life hop- 
ing to see it appear, but it didn't, though later work of mine 
continued to be used. More than once Mr. Mitchell was 
apologetic, saying: "We're trying to get up nerve enough 
around here to publish your Christ picture/' 

Likely that cartoon is somewhere in the archives of un- 
published works of art among the effects of Life Publishing 


Company. It was drawn with enthusiasm hecause of its 

From my reading I would cull meaty phrases and 
maxims, and illustrate them. Batches of these quotations were 
printed in Life, under the general title "Shots at Truth/' At 

SHOTS AT TRUTH. Under this general title I illustrated a series of 
epigrams for Life, which ran singly. Captions for the above, in obvious order, 
were : "Fear follows crime and is its punishment" (Voltaire) ; "It is difficult 
to rise if your poverty is greater than your talent" (Juvenal) ; "The great 
are only great because we carry them on our shoulders; when we throw 
them off they sprawl upon the ground" (Montandre) ; "He who abuses 
others must not be particular about the answers he gets." (Anonymous.) 

the same time I was also drawing for Puck, principal com- 
petitor of Life, My friend Bert Leston Taylor, then an editor 
of Puck, didn't think much of these "shots" in the rival 
weekly. One day Taylor said: "Say, Art, why don't you 
illustrate Battletfs Quotations?" I told him that a good 
illustrated Bartlett would not he a bad idea, and for a long 
time I entertained the thought of doing The Best of Bartlett, 


Illustrated. Had I been given any encouragement by an editor 
or publisher, I could have found many epigrams in Bartlett 
worthy of such handling. Back of this idea of illustrated 
quotes was the belief that if a title credited to Shakespeare or 
some other famous man was put under a drawing of mine, it 
would have more weight than any title I could devise. 

In the debating class we dealt often with the doctrine of 
government operation of utilities. The theme appealed to me, 
and I joined the Municipal Ownership League and began 
making speeches for it around New York. This was during 
a political campaign* Carrying an easel and drawing paper, 
I would frequently illustrate my speeches with simple dia- 
gram cartoons drawn while the audience watched. Cab hire 
necessitated by the easel cost a good deal, and not until late 
in the campaign did the arrangements committee ever pay 
for my cabs. Being an unpaid speaker, I was considerably in 
the red when the campaign ended* 

One of the arguments used by the opponents of municipal 
ownership was that it would be unjust to take away the 
franchise held by the utility corporations that legally or 
ethically the city could not compel a corporation to forfeit 
such a franchise no matter how tyrannical that corporation 
had been. 

"People who argue this way/' I said in my speeches, 
"remind me of the small boy who bought a green pepper at 
a grocery, thinking it a pear. A gentleman meeting the little 
fellow a few blocks down the street noticed the boy screwing 
up his face in disgust. The gentleman said; 'What's the mat- 
ter?' . . . *Oh/ said the boy, 1 bought this for a pear and 
I suppose I've got to eat it/ " 

Only five years earlier I had been poking fun at Hiram 
Pennick for his "campainin for the millenum" and "against 
the octipust" and now I was crusading for one of the chief 
demands of the Populists. And often my audiences were not 
much larger than the handful of listeners which I had shown 
following in Hiram's wake. Changing the world was a slow 
process; people in mental darkness were slow in seeing the 
light, as I had been; crusaders for the betterment of human 
society needed extraordinary patience. 

After that local campaign I had a new burst of produc- 


tive energy, for I must earn additional money and build up 
a financial reserve to keep my family going. The easiest mate- 
rial for me to sell then was the illustrated joke, which occa- 
sionally satirized the passing show, but didn't tread on 
individual toes as my political cartoons had done. 

Thus I produced a series for Pack called "Things That 
Hit Our Funny Bone/' A typical specimen of this series shows 
two pictures first Chester Van Daub, artist, painting a 

ALL IS VANITY. Wife reading local paper: "Ezra Whitcomb was seen 
yesterday driving his new rubber-tired carriage." (Note the "Well, I guess" 
wiggle of that leg.) 

canvas in his studio, and second, Mr. Wright Mush, critic 
and authority on pictures, gushing over the same canvas 
to some awed museum visitors. Van Daub at work says: 
"I d' know wha' thish picture means (slashes on a brash- fall 
of burnt sienna and pink) but it looks like a Hungarian 
goulash. T' hell with art anyway!" . . . Mr. Wright Mush 
says; "Ah, this is Van Daub's 'Moonlight Splendor', a won- 
derful conception; the meaning of the artist is so clearly and 
intellectually expressed and shows such a firm grasp of his 
medium. As I said in my review, such a picture is born only 
in the brain of one who is intensely devoted to his art." 

One of my dialogue pictures in Pack reveals people seated 
at two tables in a cafe. A soulful woman is saying to her 


escort: "Those men over there are all brilliant writers. 
Wouldn't it be a treat just to hear their conversation?*' . . . 
And one of the brilliant writers is reminiscing just then: 
"Gus, do you remember those sausages we had in Berlin? 
Talk about but say, they don't know how to cook in this 

Other illustrated jokes I sold to Puck dealt with The 
Reward of Virtue, showing the lawyer who resolved never 
to defend a client he believed guilty (and thus remained poor) 
and the lawyer who didn't (and got rich) ; Street Signs in 
Plenty Where Nobody Goes (in the realty developments) 
and No Signs Where Everybody Goes (in the center of a 
city) ; Santa Glaus discovering the convenience of using a 
dumb-waiter instead of a chimney; and automobiles scaring 
farmers' horses. 

I note that once I poked fun at my own back-to-nature 
ideas, working out in pictures this theme: "Henry Wilbur 
Puddin reads Dr. Dippy's book, 'Getting Back to the Earth' , 
and tries the bare-foot exercises recommended (doing them at 
night in the snow) . He gets back to earth in three weeks." 
His tombstone read: "He had a gentle trusting nature/' 

In the editorial waiting rooms I would meet other car- 
toonists and illustrators and exchange small talk with them* 
There was no other regular meeting place to which I had 
entree. Cartoonists and writers didn't know much about each 
other's personalities then* There were few social or fraternal 
organizations in New York which I could have joined that 
were not too expensive. Thomas Nast once had urged me to 
come into the Players' Club, but the cost was too much 
and the Salmagundi Club likewise was beyond the reach of 
a struggling free-lance. Bills that I couldn't pay have always 
been a big part of the hell that has surrounded me in most 
of my years. 

In a later period, when I happened to be making money 
above expenses, I was almost persuaded by C. D. Gibson 
and Frank Crowninshield to become a member of the exclu- 
sive Coffee House Club. Here I could have chinned with 
Joseph H. Choate, Chester H. Aldrich, George Arliss, Win- 
throp Ames, Paul Manship, and others, and no doubt it 
would have been much to my liking. But I had learned to 


avoid the club habit, with its monthly dues staring one in 
the face like a bugaboo in the night 

Some of us got together now and then at dinners par- 
ticularly in Chinatown on Saturday evenings. Robert Ryland, 
Sydney Shaw, Andrew Schwartz, Howard Smith, and other 
kindred souls would attend all painters, and some of them 
Prix de Rome winners and others with prize records. At those 
informal affairs there was sparkling talk and keen repartee. 
And after the chow mein and trimmings had been disposed 
of, and many cups of tea had been downed, we would walk 
home through dim back streets to our uptown studios. 

These gatherings grew larger as the years went by and 
the last time I took part Mahonri Young and John Held Jr., 
both from Salt Lake City, and many more of the rising 
generation of painters and illustrators were there. The group 
had expanded to fifty or more too many for real camerad- 
erie. With only six or a dozen at a table the talk was intimate, 
and all of us could be in on it. But when the number of 
diners multiplied the Chinatown dinners became confusing. 
Our friendly little exchanges had become institutionalized, 
and for me the lure was gone. An announcement of one of 
those later conclaves described it rightly as "a dinner to make 
believe we are having a better time than we are having/' 

And I met a few painters in those days whom I had read 
about in my youth for instance, Walter Shirlaw (a great 
artist now neglected) and was introduced to John LaFarge 
once when he was out walking with his Japanese servant. I 
knew the picturesque DeLeftwitch Dodge, who was one of 
the promising wizards of sensual and fantastic murals even 
in the days when we were both at Julien's in Paris. The last 
time I saw him he was teaching at the Art Students* League 
and in one of those casual street talks with him it was 
plain that the tendency of the younger generation to see some 
merit in the new cult of Picasso and the other modernists 
aggravated him. 

After our breakup, Elizabeth and Kate and the children 
remained on the farm for about six months. Then they de- 
parted for California to make it their Borne. Both sisters had 
been left small legacies by their Uncle Len. 

We kept up a fairly regular correspondence in which the 


progress of the two boys was the principal topic. Several 
years after going to the west coast, Elizabeth indicated that 
she would like to sell her share in the Chestnut Ridge place, 
and I agreed to buy it and pay for it in installments during 
the following year. 

Around 1910 Elizabeth and the youngsters made a visit 
to Wisconsin, and my father expressed pride in the brightness 
of the boys and the consideration they showed for their 

Chapter 25 

FAITHFULLY I continued to attend Cooper Union. 
Each Saturday night we debated such subjects as the 
tariff, immigration, woman suffrage, public ownership 
of utilities, taxation, states' rights, and others of timely 

and debate. I rise to the occasion. 

In the spring of 1906 I graduated, on the platform where 
Lincoln made his historic speech just before he became Presi- 
dent. That speech in which he expressed what was then an 
unpopular view among the best people of the East, that the 
federal government had the right to exercise control over 



slavery. "Never let us be slandered from our duty/* he said. 
"... Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that 
faith let us to the end dare to do our duty as we under- 
stand it/' 

And from this same platform more than half a century 
later, President-elect William Howard Taft had been con- 
fronted with a challenging question: 

"What would you advise a man to do who is out of a 
job and whose family is starving because he can't get work?" 

There was little comfort for the unemployed in Taft's 

"God knows. Such a man has my deepest sympathy. 

On the night of my graduation, there was a debate: 
"Resolved, that a tax on income is vital to the welfare of 
the American people/' I was selected as one of the four de- 
baters from a class of more than 100. I was at my best that 
evening, and our side, the affirmative, won. The late Judge 
Morgan J. O'Brien was judge of the contest, and presented 
the diplomas. 

I enjoyed the mind exercise I was getting in those days; 
there were thrills in it such as I imagine people have when 
they fly in airplanes. Disappointments too. Sometimes I 
would read an illuminating book, and having finished it, 
would lean back in my chair with the satisfied feeling that 
I knew enough to last me for awhile. Next night, perhaps, 
I would hear a lecture by some better informed individual 
than I could ever hope to be, and would realize that I had 
climbed only the foothills of understanding. 

I stocked up with Socialist pamphlets, and read, or tried 
to read them. Often they were in language too deep for me; 
in technical terms familiar to European Socialists, but not to 
unconverted Americans. But it never occurred to me to be 
against Socialism or any other theory because it originated 
in Europe. I felt that such an objection was just plain silly; 
that "alien theory", "imported doctrine*', and such phrases 
of contempt were deliberately coined to discredit a growing 
cause. If this was good reasoning, I figured, why accept any- 
thing that originated outside of our own country? That our 
prevailing religion came from Asia and many of our ac- 
cepted political and best scientific ideas had their origin in 


Europe seemed to me ample justification for free trade in 

For several years the scathing articles by Lincoln Steffens 
under the general title of "The Shame of our Cities" had been 
appearing in McClares Magazine, and they exposed the 
bribed and the bribing of municipal government Seemingly 
one city was as rotten as another. And Ida Tarbell had writ- 
ten "The History of Standard Oil/' and turned the search- 
light on the methods by which John D. Rockefeller acquired 
his fortune. 

Thomas W. Lawson, outspoken Boston stockbroker, had 
held the center of the American stage for more than two years 
with his "Frenzied Finance" series in Everybody's Magazine. 
With spectacular wrath, he tore the feathers out of the buz- 
zards of Wall Street, showing up their evil practices and 
raising hell generally among his own tribe. This lone bird 
sought to reform the predatory birds all around him. Every- 
body's leaped to an average sale of 750,000 copies during 
that expose. Lawson's brilliant and bitter articles aroused 
great public indignation against Wall Street. Then they 
petered out with the crusader discouraged and financially 

Upton Sinclair had come along, a young man with a 
mighty determination, and against heavy odds forced the 
publication of his novel, The Jungle, based upon his first- 
hand observations of the conditions under which meat was 
packed in the Chicago stockyards and under which the work- 
ers there lived. And President Theodore Roosevelt, who had 
testified that he would as soon have eaten his old hat as the 
canned meat furnished the American troops by the Chicago 
packers in 1898, appointed a commission to investigate Sin- 
clair's charges. Ella Reeve Bloor was a member of this body. 
Brisbane lauded the book in two editorials, saying "The 
Jungle'* had done for modern industrial slavery what "Uncle 
Tom's Cabin" did for black slavery, and had done it better. 
And the New York American began running the Sinclair 
novel serially* 

Many persons lost their taste for meat for a long time 
because of the horrors shown in that story* Then the news- 
papers reported that conditions had been cleaned up in the 


stockyards by the new inspection service installed by the 
Department of Agriculture at the urging of Roosevelt's com- 
mission, and the public clamor died down. But the publicity 
given to the investigation had painted a dark picture of the 
whole meat industry in the minds of millions of Americans.* 
Moyer, Haywood, and Pettibone were kidnapped in Den- 
ver and taken to Boise, Idaho, for trial on a charge of assassi- 
nating former Governor Steunenberg with dynamite. The 
stories that came through on this in the daily press for months 
gave the impression that these men and their associates in the 
Western Federation of Miners were red-handed murderers; it 
was easy to believe that, if one heard nothing of the other 


side of the story, clear up to the time of the defendants* 

But there were protest meetings in behalf of the defense 
in New York, and I attended one of these, where Eugene V. 
Debs spoke, and he brought home to us who listened the 
black story of the frame-up against the accused, which was 
designed to crush unionism among the metal miners of the 
West. Debs was dynamic as he denounced the mining mag- 
nates whose agents had seized the three union leaders in Colo- 

* The Jungle had a profound effect upon me when I read it in 1906. 
Sinclair gives a graphic picture of the tenacious nature of the giant evil he tried 
to blot out, in The Brass Check and American Outpost. Recalling in the latter 
book, in 1932, that he aimed at the public's heart and by accident hit it in the 
stomach, he says: "I am supposed to have helped clean up the Yards and 
improve the country's meat supply though this is mostly delusion. But nobody 
even pretends to believe that I improved the condition of the stockyards workers. 
They have no unions to speak of, and their wages are, in relation to the cost of 
living, every bit as low as they were twenty-eight years ago. Yet I don't want 
to be pessimistic. . . . Some day we shall ... see the sprouting of the seed 
we have been scattering all these weary years-** 


rado without a warrant, carried them into another state, and 
held them incommunicado for days while the prosecution 
was building its case against them, His voice shrilled with 
contempt as he cited Theodore Roosevelt's characterization 
of the defendants and their friends as "undesirable citizens/' 
What a nation for Washington and Lincoln to look 
upon, if they could have returned for a visit then! 

Nineteen Seven brought a panic in Wall Street, and hard 
times again* Factories were closing, countless thousands of 
men out of work. That autumn a mass-meeting of unem- 
ployed was announced under Socialist auspices to take place 


in Union Square. A permit for this was refused by the police, 
but the crowd gathered anyhow. Policemen poured into the 
Square, on horse and on foot, and began clubbing men and 
women right and left, and riding them down. 

In the midst of all this a bomb exploded almost a re- 
enactment of the Chicago Haymarket scene one youth be- 
ing killed and many persons wounded. The police "identified" 
the young fellow who was killed as the bomb-thrower. His 
name was given as Sig Silverstein, and he was described 
variously as a Socialist, Anarchist, and Nihilist. One of those 
knocked down by the explosion and then clubbed by a 
policeman was Alexander Irvine, a young Episcopal clergy- 
man and Socialist, who on Sunday evenings conducted an 
open forum in the Church of the Ascension on Fifth Avenue, 
where Dr. Percy Stickney Grant was rector* Irish-born, Irvine 

















had been raised in poverty. He wrote of his life in a hook, 
"From the Bottom Up/* 

I went to the forum on the following Sunday, and 
heard him tell of his experience at the Union Square meeting, 
after which he explained how the capitalists used the police 
against the producers of their wealth, how they threw the 
latter out of jobs without pity. Being an emotional speaker 
and a Christian minister, Irvine was an arousing voice in 
the wilderness of New York churches, convincing all his 
listeners except of course the wealthy members. 

On various occasions I attended that forum, where speak- 
ers on both sides could be heard, and always came away with 
a clearer insight into the class struggle. Once a bourgeois- 
minded gentleman was speaking on the virtue of charity. It 
was winter-time, and he said he had just seen a beautiful 
illustration of that virtue on Eleventh Street near Broadway. 
His heart was thrilled as he watched a long line of hungry 
men receiving bread free of charge. 

"The true Christian spirit," he shouted, "My friends, it 
was beautiful !" 

Whereupon a lean figure, who looked like one of "those 
incorrigible Socialists", got up and said: "Then the longer 
the line the more beautiful it is?" 

At that time I had not thought of drawing any cartoons 
for the existing Socialist and kindred publications, nor had 
anyone asked me to. The current periodicals of that type in- 
cluded Wilshires Magazine, published in New York;^ the 
Appeal to Reason issuing from Girard, Kansas; the Chicago 
Daily Socialist; Mother Earth, Anarchist organ, the Inter- 
national Socialist Review, the Weekly People, organ of the 
Socialist Labor Party, and Wayland's Monthly, also pub- 
lished in Girard. 

I knew where my sympathies lay; but was not yet ready 
to speak out, although Darwin Meserole and other friends 
were saying: "With your equipment as an artist, you ought 
to be a Socialist/' Instead I was holding on to such estab- 
lished publications as were receptive to my work, and en- 
deavoring to put across pointed cartoons which would in 
some way help the cause of Socialism. For Life, Pack, and 
Judge would take pictures aimed at firetrap tenements, John 



D. Rockefeller, child labor, grafting public officials, sweat 
shops, deified money, exploiters of the poor, and related evils. 

Meanwhile Arthur Brisbane occasionally reprinted car- 
toons of mine from Life or Pack and made them the basis of 
editorials, sometimes agreeing with my contention, but quite 
as often as not pointing out that there was much to be said 
on the other side, and that Mr. Young, "able and well 
meaning", had erred in thinking that his cartoon was as true 
as it appeared to be. Now and then Brisbane voiced beliefs 
that were part of the Socialist party program, but quieted 
the fears of those among his readers who might object by 
saying that "perhaps ten thousand years hence these ideas 
will be adopted by society/' 

And as I moved farther into the field of social satire 
Brisbane called upon me to do special work for the Journal, 
and subsequently for the Sunday American, when he began 
doing editorials for what was then the World Events section. 
My cartoons for this purpose were drawn for full-width use 
across the top of the page. In that day practically all Ameri 7 
can dailies were seven columns wide instead of eight as now. 

I was striking at effects rather than at causes, and it was 
never possible to point to the institution which I was now 
convinced lay at the bottom of all these dark manifestations. 
Once in a moment of excess confidence, I labeled a fat silk- 
hatted figure in a picture with the word Capitalism. 

"We can't do that/' Hearst's principal editor said. "Call 
him Creed. That means the same thing, and it won't get 
us into trouble/' 

It was around 1910 that I realized I belonged with the 
Socialists in their fight to destroy capitalism. I had been a 
long time arriving at that conclusion. Often I have been 
asked: "What made you a radical?" It was no thunderbolt 
revelation that hit me like the one which struck Paul of 
Tarsus. Many elements went into my decision. For years the 
truth about the underlying cause of the exploitation and 
misery of the world's multitudes had been knocking at the 
door of my consciousness, but not until that year did it begin 
to sound clearly. 

Earlier I had devoted a great deal of enthusiasm in cer- 
tain periods to profit-sharing and public ownership, but I 


CHARLES EDWARD RUSSELL. The Socialist Party used this drawing 
as a poster when he ran for the New York Governorship in 1910. 



saw now that while these were moves in the right direction, 
the ultimate solution of society's greatest problem was the 
co-operative commonwealth, with production for use as the 
first point in the program, so that no human would ever 
again have to suffer for want of food, clothing, or shelter. 

Seeing this, I began to draw cartoons hitting directly at 
capitalism, placing them where I could, or saving them against 
a day when a friendly editor might accept them. I watched 
for chances to hook up current injustices to that underlying 
cause. Mitchell of Life welcomed so#ie of these cartoons, 
although he held that there was a limit to how many of that 
type he could intersperse in his pages. But in those days, for 
a magazine that had not declared war upon the moneyed 
interests, Life did pretty well. 

One of my drawings used by Mitchell, which now seems 
daring for that time, bore the one- word caption, "Capital- 
ism," later reprinted with the title, "The Last Supper/' 
High on a precipice, symbolic of his lofty position in world 
affairs, sits a grossly fat gentleman at a table, which is lit- 
tered with the leavings from a rich feast which he has just 
gorged. As he leans back in his chair to drain a big golden 
bowl for his final fill, the chair is dangerously close to teeter- 
ing over the brink. 

One day after I had turned definitely leftward, I ran into 
Eugene Wood on the street. I had not seen him since our 
Chicago days. He expressed gratification that I had become 
Socialistic in my thinking and said: "Everybody will see 
the light some day/' It was an exhilarating discovery to find 
that a farm boy from my mid-west country who could write 
effectively also had some "queer" notions about political 
economy. Most of the many writers and artists in New York 
then never bothered their heads about economics or political 
trends. I felt that I was not so eccentric after all if Eugene 
Wood, whose humorous stories about his Ohio home folks 
were popular features of Everybody's Magazine, could accept 
the Marxian philosophy, 

He was a man of true nobility, self-sacrificing, giving 
everything he had to the cause. As writer, speaker, and teacher 
he served valiantly. He wrote Socialist pamphlets, spoke in 
political campaigns, and for several terms taught English 
and pronunciation to large classes of foreigners in the Rand 



School. Simultaneously with that teaching, he worked on the 
copy desk of the Daily Call . . . The death of his wife was 
a heavy blow to him; they had been devoted to each other. 
After that loss we used to meet occasionally in the Union 
Square district, where we both lived; and his sadness deepened 
as the months went by. The one joy left in his life was his 
daughter Peggy, the actress, in whose talent he took great 


Like myself, he was born amid the moral restraints of a 
small community, and was a bit timid about some of the 
pictured nudes and articles on sex in the Masses, and resigned 
from the staff when some of the numbers displeased him. 
His best humorous writings in that magazine were burlesques 
of the old stories in the Bible. 

Balfour Ker is remembered for his powerful social satires, 
and above all for a certain picture entitled From the Depths. 
It shows the terror of revelers in a palace of pleasure as a 
fist is thrust up through the floor by one of the toilers below 
whose labor enables the revelers to exist. This has often been 
reprinted, and has been the subject of many editorials and 
sermons, but few people nowadays know where it first ap- 
peared. It was one of the illustrations which Ker made for 
a novel called The Silent War, written by John Ames 
Mitchell and published in 1906. The theme was the class 

I find a letter which Ker sent me from London in Decem- 
ber, 1910, which has bearing on that period, and I feel that 
it is well worth including here. 

So you have joined in the good fight (Ker wrote) I knew 
you would sooner or later. It takes a long time sometimes to just 
see the proposition right, but once that is done the rest of the 
way is sure if rough. Well, the long time it takes us to see it shows 
how much the future of Socialism depends on the mass of the 
people being educated in the idea. Constant reiteration, from press, 
pulpit, picture, book, platform, everywhere, in every conceivable 
way, whether it be labeled Socialism or not. We must din it into 
the public ear, eye, nose, stomach, and purse. You remember Mira- 
beau said that there were three essentials in convincing oratory: 
"The first is repetition; the second repetition; and the third repe- 
tition/' I guess that's about right and would apply to Socialist 


No human being could stand out very long against the argu- 
ments for the necessity of the complete socialization of the eco- 
nomic machine. It's our business to keep hammering away. And 
Gosh! But you have a bully old sledge-hammer in that pen of 
yours. Your work stands head and shoulders above any other 
work of its kind in the U.S.A. It ranks with the little fine stuff 
in cartooning in Germany and France. I've received Life regularly 
since I left the land of the free and have got a pretty good idea 
of its relative merits and demerits. It's a damn bright able little 
sheet, and shows up well even at 3,000 miles distance. And your 
stuff is about the strongest of it all, much the strongest drawing, 
and it tickles me that you have "seen de light/' Brer Young. . . . 

How is that capitalist room-mate of yours? Have you con- 
verted him yet? . . . Vlag gives me great accounts of his co-op 
society. Co-operation is an important factor over here, and I think 
Pete deserves all sorts of credit if he gets it going in the U.S.A. 
with a Socialist tag on it too. I was a member until recently of 
one of the largest co-ops in England, but I found that the thing 
was not really democratically run, but run by and in the interest 
of a small clique of officials and share-holders, so I cleared out. It 
was founded purely as a profit-sharing concern, and called co- 
operative to draw members. Even under those circumstances they 
gave far better value for the money than the ordinary business 

It's my private opinion that only through labor unions, in- 
dustrial unionism, and some form, or forms, of co-operation, will 
the people receive the necessary instruction in the common sense 
and economy of complete socialization of productive machinery. 

You should have heard yours truly haranguing British crowds 
on the foolishness of 'protection' as a cure for unemployment, 
and on the danger of trusts, etc. pretty near got my head punched 
several times for butting into 'tariff reform' speeches and meetings. 

I've met some damn nice fellows here in the movement. They 
compare well with any bunch of men in any profession or class, 
these fellows working in the dark corners for the better day, Man 
for man, they are far better than the average gink or capitalist. 
And some of them are real heroes men who could get to almost 
any position they wanted if they would just drop their propa- 
ganda work, men who cannot be bought, scared, bluffed, nor 
humbugged. Men of very real ability and really splendidly edu- 
cated, plugging away day and night year in and year out educat- 
ing, arguing, talking, talking, talking the truth into the almost 
hopelessly 'indifferent workers. Surely something must some day 
come of such effort let's hope it comes soon. 

Do you still attend classes at the Rand School? I haven't had 


a chance for lectures since I came here, I've put in about three 
hours a day studying drawing though in different schools, and 
I'm starting to paint again tomorrow with some fellows, one of 
whom is a cracking fine painter, an old pupil of Whistler's named 
Clifford Adams. Hope to learn lots, not that I want ever to ^ paint 
a la Whistler, but Adams knows Whistler's "science'' of painting 
down to the ground, and has offered to teach me. I'm going to 
keep on studying this time I'm over here until I'm a thoroughly 
well equipped craftsman. I'm afraid that means some years yet 
of hard work, but I'm going to stick it. The worst of the damned 
business is that I have to keep doing pot-boiling, which lengthens 
the time necessary more than I can really spare. However, my 
"comrade", as you called her, is of the right sort and willing to 
rough it and even starve if necessary, so we live very economically 
and I do as little illustrating and as much studying as possible, 
and methinks I've learned a thing or two since getting here. 

When I look over the field of modern art I have to blush for 
the painters, a lot of silly upper-class parasites, and yours truly 
is going to try to show that a painter can be a Socialist and use 
his brush like the splendid weapon it is, and as hundreds have 
used their pens, for freedom and light. Gee whizz ^ Doesn't that 
sound big? And it's little me talking. However, since you are a 
Socialist, I don't mind "talking big" to you. Socialism makes us 
think of big things and long to do them whether we can or not. 

One evening I went to hear Emma Goldman, out of 
curiosity. She was an emotional speaker, but not nearly so 
dangerous looking as she had been pictured by the news- 
papers. Her talk was a bit bookish, and she looked like a 
hausfratc, and more maternal in appearance and manner than 
destructive. She carried her audience along with her like a 
mother hen followed by a brood of chicks. Sometimes, how- 
ever, she rose to heights of flaming anger as she cited crimes 
of the police against workers or the use of federal or state 
troops to break strikes. 

Chapter 26 

NOW I was past forty years of age and I knew definitely 
where I was going. I was in such a state as our Chris- 
tian forebears would have called "righteous indigna- 
tion/' My humorous sense had to keep reminding me to look 
out for fanaticism. However, I was filled with a deep resent- 
ment against the social wrongs that were manifest wherever 
one turned to look. Henceforth my drawing pen must be 
devoted in so far as circumstances would permit to attack- 
ing the System which engendered so much woe. 

From Twenty- fourth Street I had moved to 9 East 
Seventeenth Street, on the edge of Greenwich Village, then 
the radical center of artistic and economic ferment in a sense 
the American Montmartre. Here I occupied a large skylight 
studio with my friend Howard Smith, painter and commer- 
cial artist. We had to walk up three flights, but I regarded 
this as good exercise. 

There was a new zest for me in just living. Days of 
real doing had set in. But I still had my own economic prob- 
lem, which must be solved anew each week. Whatever recog- 
nition my talent had had in the few years since I had swung 
to an avowed espousal of "the cause", none of the radical 
publications could see any point (if they ever thought of it) 
in turning me loose against the System and paying me for it, 
not even if I were able to bring about the industrial common- 
wealth singlehanded. What money they had went to business 
upkeep and to sustain editors and writers expert at spreading 
out columns of wordage on the difference between the twee- 
dledee of their wing of the movement and the tweedledum 
of the other wing. Of course these editorial writers had to 
know Karl Marx, the materialist conception of history, and 
how to use invective with such equipment they would write 
a thousand words to say what a good cartoon could say at 



a glance. So I had to keep going financially by continuing to 
draw for the established periodicals. 

When I received a good check for a Socialistic cartoon, 
such as those which Life occasionally used, I was as pleased 
as the Irishman who wrote to his friend in the old country: 
"Jim, come on over. I'm tearing down a Protestant church 
and getting paid for it besides/* My main support came from 
the sale of comics to Life and Judge, with now and then a 

PIET VLAG, founder of The Masses. 

job of illustrating for Collier's or some other successful maga- 
zine. Once in a while, too, I would get a check for a cartoon 
illustrating a labor leaflet which would just about cover my 
week's laundry bill. Add to these a few pictures for book 
jackets at intervals, and my days were well occupied. 

Late in 1910 Piet Vlag, a young Dutchman whom I had 
met at the Rand School of Social Science, then at 112 East 
19th Street, came to my studio and said he was going to 
start a magazine. He had a restaurant in the basement of the 


school building. If you saw Piet once you would never forget 
him. He had the large nose you see in photographs of Dutch- 
men along the Zuyder Zee, black penetrating eyes, and an 
irresistible smile. With contagious ardor he explained the 
policy of the projected magazine and sketched its format. It 
would have to do with co-operatives in which Vlag was 
directly interested, Socialism, art, and literature, among other 
things. And Piet had a backer for the enterprise Rufus W. 
Weeks, vice-president of the New York Life Insurance Com- 

"Will you contribute to the magazine?" he asked. 

"Of course/' I said, "here's one now/' And I handed 
Piet a cartoon lately finished. 

Various names for the new periodical were suggested, 
and the question was discussed at some length before all those 
concerned agreed upon calling it The Masses, a name pro- 
posed by Thomas Seltzer, who was chosen as the editor. 
Mr. Weeks was ready to pay the cost of printing and engrav- 
ing for "a reasonable length of time/' Vlag, always an 
enthusiast in anything he undertook, figured that in six 
months the enterprise ought to be solidly on its feet. He 
plunged into it with admirable industry, spending all his 
waking hours in visiting writers and artists, pledging them 
to contribute, and talking about the virtues of the forthcom- 
ing magazine to everyone he met. 

There was no mention of paying contributors, and cer- 
tainly none of us expected pay. For The Masses promised 
to be a publication for the release of socially conscious anti- 
capitalist literary and artistic expressions for which there was 
hardly any demand by the well printed news-stand variety 
of magazine. And there were artists and writers who felt 
the need of such an outlet pay or no pay. 

January, 1911, saw The Masses launched. It was de- 
signed, the publishers explained, to help improve the condi- 
tions of the working people, (f whether they want it or not/' 
Eugene Wood was listed as president of the publishing com- 
pany, Hayden Carruth as vice-president, and Andre Tridon 
as secretary. 

That first issue included articles on the co-operative move- 
ment by W. J. Ghent and Eugene Wood, one on the cost of 
living by Gustavus Myers, a cartoon by Cesare, and two 


cartoons by myself. One of mine dealt with the evolution of 
the store, forecasting a day when the vulture of capitalism 
would be kicked off the top of retail business and ownership 
and operation would be taken over by the people for the 
common good* 

While the quality of the material in the new magazine 
varied widely, some of the offerings had strength, and I was 
optimistic. There would be improvement as the months went 
on. Eugene Debs, always ready to aid any effort to extend 
the Socialist press, lauded it. 

Charles A. Winter made the cover drawing. This re- 
markable artist has been deplorably overlooked since those 
days when he had but recently returned from study abroad. 
His work showed a strong classic influence, and Dante Gabriel 
Rossetti at his best could not have surpassed the richness 
of his color* Doubtless those superb pictures, which have 
had all too little attention, are somewhere piled up for re- 
lease, some time after awhile. 

Each month Piet Vlag would hurry into my studio and 
say: "Veil, Art, ve got to have a picture for the Messes/' 
His pronunciation was delightful, and I was sometimes wor- 
ried lest Eugene Wood would take Piet in hand and smooth 
out his speech into pure English. If I had nothing suitable 
lying around I would draw a cartoon touching on some 
current topic. A theme agreed upon, I often found these pic- 
tures much easier to draw than those I was selling to the 
conventional magazines. If you are getting paid for work 
most editors, like true business men, make it a rule to find 
fault. Anyhow they offer no praise, for fear you will think 
they need you and that your money is earned too easily. 
With Vlag there was no haggling over the way in which 
I had interpreted an idea. It was up to me, and I felt that 
an audience was waiting to see what would be in the next 
issue. For the first time in my life I could cut loose and express 
my own unhampered point of view, 

Louis Untermeyer was contributing poems which dealt 
with the realities of the class struggle, but which sounded 
a note of hope. There were articles showing how the workers 
were robbed through exploitation by employers as the cost 
of living went up; others against the Boy Scouts, which were 
viewed as a potential military organization; and attacks on 








child labor. A good deal was printed about co-operatives. 
Portraits of contributors were occasionally used with their 
articles. Vlag's writings had some punch in them, but were 
not in any sense distinguished. Rufus Weeks' s offerings were 
inclined to be too leisurely philosophical to be appropriate 
in a periodical designed to appeal to the working class. 

Weeks was a quiet, dignified gentleman, an avowed So- 
cialist with an inquiring mind. Rockwell Kent, who knew 
him better than I, told me stories about him* Rockwell said 
that on election days in Tarrytown, where Weeks lived, the 
family carriage would be driven to the polling place by his 
Negro coachman, who also was a Socialist. Together Weeks 
and the coachman would go in and cast their ballots for the 
straight Socialist ticket. Being a vice-president of a big insur- 
ance company, I suspect that Rufus Weeks, to his business 
associates, was one of those fellows of whom people say: 
"He means well, but he's kind of impractical and up in the 

For a year and a half the Masses appeared regularly, but 
did not become anywhere near being self-supporting, and Mr. 
Weeks's enthusiasm waned and finally came to a full stop. 
Vlag's co-operative stores were suffering from too much in- 
dividualism, and he had lost his usual buoyancy. But he was 
busy trying to solve the problem of survival for "the Messes", 
and he went to Chicago to look up a man reputed to have a 
lot of money and a generous nature. That man had just left 
for a trip around the world, and Vlag worked out a plan to 
merge his publication with a Socialist women's magazine then 
appearing in the midwestern metropolis. Impulsively he 
promised the parties of the other part to throw all of us 
contributors into the combination. When he returned to New 
York with a wide smile of satisfaction over having fixed 
up everything for the future, he was surprised to learn that 
we artists and writers who had been giving time and energy 
to keeping the Masses alive did not approve of his plan. 

There was no September issue in 1912, and Charles 
Winter, who had been an active contributor, called a small 
group together for a crisis meeting in his studio. Those pres- 
ent included Alice Winter, John and Dolly Sloan, Louis 
Untermeyer, Eugene Wood, Maurice Becker, Glenn Coleman, 
William Washburn Nutting, H. T. Turner, and myself. We 


were unanimous in holding that the magazine must go on. 
Somehow we would find the money to pay the cost, from 
month to month. But who would be editor? There were no 
candidates for the job among the conferees. 

I nominated Max Eastman, who had lately been ousted 
from a Columbia professorship for his outspoken opinions 
on the social conflict in classroom lectures. Max and I had 
met at a Jack London dinner, and we had discussed the possi- 
bility of building up the Masses into a magazine which would 
have the bold tone and high quality of Simplicissimus, 
Jugend, Steinlen's Gil Bias, and Assiette au Beurre, all of 
which were inspiring to the world's rising young artists. To 
show how Max could handle words and ideas, I read to the 
conference a magazine article he had written, describing with 
charming humor how he had organized the first Men's League 
for Woman's Suffrage in New York. All the others acqui- 
esced in the nomination, and we all signed a letter to Max, 
which said: "You are elected editor of the Masses, no pay/' 

Max was not keen about taking a no-pay editorship of a 
literary magazine, for at that stage it was to have a literary 
front, but he thought he might make the job serve a useful 
purpose, and presently consented to come in. In private con- 
versations with him we who had assumed control made it 
clear that of course he could have a salary, even a good one, 
if we succeeded in developing the magazine into a self-sus- 
taining property. But the main thing was the co-operative 
principle in editing the contents art and literature. Though 
we of the executive board were eager to resume publication, 
it took time to raise the necessary money and to whip into 
shape text and pictures for an issue that would measure up 
to the standard we had visualized. So it was December before 
the Masses blossomed again, now with a colored cover, a 
new make-up, and a fresh note of hope. 

Members of the staff listed were: Literature: Max East- 
man, Eugene Wood, Hayden Carruth, Inez Haynes Gilmore, 
Ellis O. Jones, Horatio Winslow, Thomas Seltzer, Mary 
Heaton Vorse, Joseph O'Brien, Louis Untermeyer, Leroy 
Scott. Art: John Sloan, Art Young, Alice Beach Winter, 
Alexander Popini, H. T. Turner, Charles A. Winter, Maurice 
Becker, William Washburn Nutting* 


And in announcing the revival of the Masses, and its 
policy, we said: 

We do not enter the field of any Socialist or other 
magazine now published, or to be published. We shall 
have no further part in the factional disputes within the 
Socialist party; we are opposed to the dogmatic spirit 
which creates and sustains these disputes. Our appeal 
will be to the masses, both Socialist and non-Socialist, 
with entertainment, education, and the livelier kinds of 

In February, 19 13, the contents of the magazine included 
two drawings by Maurice Becker and a 'little testimonial 
from Boston" in the form of a letter from the Library Club 
House saying: "Stop sending us the Masses; we never ordered 
it and do not want it." And John Reed, new on the scene, 
had written a further statement of policy in collaboration 
with Max Eastman, which now appeared: 

This magazine is owned and published co-opera- 
tively by its editors. It has no dividends to pay, and no- 
body is trying to make any money out of it. A revolu- 
tionary and not a reform magazine; a magazine with a 
sense of humor and no respect for the respectable; frank, 
arrogant, impertinent, searching for the true causes; a 
magazine directed against rigidity and dogma wherever 
it is found; printing what is too naked or true for a 
money -making press; a magazine whose final policy is 
to do what it pleases and conciliate nobody, not even its 

Reed became a contributing editor in March, and other 
new writers and artists came in with us as time moved along, 
replacing some who for one reason or another withdrew. 
These additional members of the literary and art boards in- 
cluded Floyd Dell, Arthur Bullard, Frank Bohn, G. S. 
Sparks, Cornelia Barns, Stuart Davis, William English Wall- 
ing, B. Russell Hertz, Robert Carlton Brown, Glenn O. Cole- 
man, 1C R. Chamberlain, E. G. Miska, H. J. Glintenkamp, 
Edmund McKenna, Arturo Giovannitti, George Bellows, 
Howard Brubaker, Charles W. Wood, John Barber, Board- 
man Robinson, Robert Minor, and Frank Walts. 


Having a free hand on the Masses to attack the capitalist 
system and its beneficiaries loosed energies within me of which 
I had been unaware. I felt as many a Crusader must have felt 
long ago as he set forth to rescue the Holy Land from the 
infidels. For the first time I could draw cartoons striking 
openly at those who took the best years of the worker and 
then threw him on the scrap-heap. I didn't have to think 
about whether a picture of mine might offend an advertiser 
and thus violate a business-office policy. 

And one was not confined to assailing generalities; I could 
and did cast my pictorial shafts at individuals who symbol- 
ized the system financiers, politicians, editors, and others. 
It was gratifying to have a responsive audience, and also occa- 
sionally to hear yelps of pain from the persons attacked. 
They would register their indignation in public speeches or 
in newspaper interviews in which the militant labor press 
would be condemned as a "menace to decent society." 

Reference might be made to many of the pictures which 
I drew for the Masses in the next seven years, but it will 
suffice to mention here a few that attracted wide attention. 

"Speaking of bandits, the American soldiers are on the 
wrong trail" was the title of one cartoon which plainly im- 
plied that Pershing's troops should go to Wall Street instead 
of spending their time hunting Pancho Villa in Mexico. 

Three pictures on one page, alt alike, bore these labels: 
"Composite photo of boards of patriot organization boost- 
ing preparedness. . . . Composite photo of boards of mu- 
nition corporations. . . . Composite photo of foreign exploi- 
tation corporations/* 

I depicted a preacher exclaiming to a workingman: "You 
must be born again!" and the worker, tired of the struggle, 
replying: "Once is enough, Doc!" 

"Turning to Christianity" was the title of a scene based 
on a newspaper interview in which a missionary declared 
that "one effect of the war (in 1916) has been to increase 
the individual Turk's respect for Christianity." My drawing 
revealed a church with cannon sticking from the steeple, a 
tractor-mortar on the roof, and a big cannon barrel pointed 
from out of a window. 

Early in the Masses venture I contributed a drawing 
which I knew would not be acceptable to magazines which 

October 26,^1912 

Price 5 Cents 




Time to Butcher 

For the sake of the beatt itself at well as the people 

had to uphold the genteel tradition. Some ideas were just 
bad taste, and none of. the old-line editors would think of 
offending elderly women subscribers. . . . In this produc- 
tion of mine a small boy and his sister are walking along a 
street in the slums on a star-lit night. Jimmie looks up at 



the sky and says; "Gee! Annie, look at the stars, thick as 

But the cartoon which is best known of all the many 
I made for the Masses, and which has been reprinted around 
the world, portrays a workingman just home from a day's 
toil. As he slumps in a chair he says: 

" 1 gorry, I'm tired!" 

And his wife retorts: "There you go! You're tired! 
Here I be a~standin r over a hot stove all day, an' you 
workin' in a nice cool sewer/' 

Editors reprinting that picture and text have persistently 
altered the opening words to read "By gorry*' or "Begorry", 
evidently assuming that " 'I gorry'* was a misprint. But that 
was the form in which it originally appeared in the Masses, 
and that was the way I had heard that expletive in the 
brogue of an old Irishman back in Wisconsin. 

I found another outlet for creative expression in 1911 
and later in the Cowing Nation, a weekly published by J. A. 
Wayland and Fred D. Warren in Girard, Kansas. This maga- 
zine displayed my cartoons boldly, and now and then I 
wrote and illustrated an editorial for it* 

In its columns, on July 22, 1911, Charles Edward Rus- 
sell gave me special credit for the corrective effect of a cartoon 
which I had done some three years before for Pack. Writing 
at length about the episode, Russell said: 

"Trinity Church in New York City has now destroyed 
156 of the rotten tenements that it owned on January 1, 
1908. . . . When the character of the tenements was first 
disclosed and denounced, the church officers arose in righteous 
wrath and vehemently denied every charge. . . . Every- 
body was a liar that said a word against Holy Trinity. . * . 
The public was assured on all sides that the tenements were 
among the best in the world and above reproach. 

"But almost at once the corporation began quietly to pull 
down these admired structures. Nothing was ever said in the 
press about this, but the work was steadily pushed. . * . 
They * . . will breed tuberculosis and typhoid no more. 

"What settled the fate of the Trinity tenement was a 
cartoon by Art Young* He called it 'Holy Trinity', and it is 
one of the great cartoons of history* From it there was no 


HOLY TRINITY. Charles Edward ' Russell credited this cartoon of mine 
with forcing Trinity Church to destroy a vast number of disease-breeding 
tenements which it owned in 1908. 



escape; the wardens might fume and the corporation might 
dodge and twist; whichever way they turned, there before 
them rose that tremendous thing, thrusting a finger into their 
faces: 'Holy Trinity' Sanctimony praying while in the 
dreadful tenements below men, women, and little children 
suffered, and from their sufferings arose the money that made 
Trinity rich. Terrible picture! And terrible truth! No one 
that ever looked upon that great cartoon could thereafter get 
it out of his mind; it had the irresistible and convincing 
touch of truth and genius, and it did the business/' 

The cartoon referred to was drawn at a time when Rus- 
sell was crusading in Everybody's Magazine against Trinity's 
ownership of those disease-laden tenements. He went on to 
say in the Coming Nation that I could feel that thousands 
of people in New York were better housed and more com- 
fortable because of the power of my pencil. That commenda- 
tion was the finest reward that had come to me since I had 
begun to draw. 

Chapter 2 7 

OJOMETHING happened in 1912 which was highly im- 
^^ portant to me and significant of the spirit of protest that 
was in the air. I was asked to go to Washington for the 
Metropolitan Magazine and do a monthly review of the po- 
litical scene in words and pictures. This opened up a broad 
new field, for the Metropolitan had a wide circulation, 
whereas the Masses would have to be content with a rather 

Collier's Weekly, 1912 


exclusive folio wing. The latter had been running a year in 
revised form, and we knew its limitations for general appeal, 
Nice people didn't want it around, I had been drawing car- 
toons (and sometimes writing) for an audience -which in the 
main was already converted, but now I could appeal to those 
who were "sitting in darkness/' It was understood by the 
Metropolitan editors that my pictures would continue in the 
Masses and other magazines. 



Up to that time the newspapers and magazines had paid 
comparatively little attention to the national capital* If Con- 
gress had advertised like the theatres, no doubt its personnel 
and daily procedure would have received ample publicity on 
the well-known economic principle of reciprocity: "You 
scratch my back and I'll scratch yours/' I knew that the 
press of England considered Parliament front-page news at 
all times. I had tried before to interest editors in sending 
me to Washington to illustrate whatever was informative 
and picturesque from my point of view, but without success. 

The editor-in-chief of the Metropolitan, an Englishman, 
H. J. Whigham, thought as I did that Congress should be 
played up as British newspapers featured the doings of their 
law-makers, and as Toby M.P. (H, W. Lucy) was doing 
each week in his * 'Essence of Parliament" in Punch with 
splendid caricatures by Harry Furniss. 

When the matter of sending me to the capital came up, 
there was a debate in the editorial room as to whether my 
friend Fred C Kelly, then a Washington correspondent, 
should not do the writing while I drew the cartoons. Fred 
told the editors they ought to make me do both. I argued 
that I would rather draw than write. But they insisted on 
trying me out in the dual role. I accepted it, and the arrange- 
ment continued for more than six years. 

What Congress did or didn't do had been of little im- 
portance in the daily life of the average American, until just 
before the war broke out in Europe. As time went on, the 
newspaper editors observed that there was a growing public 
interest in this powerful aggregation of law-makers, and that 
the people were becoming conscious that politics really con- 
cerned them, especially when the conscription law was passed 
and the government reached into the nation's homes for its 
young men, the citizenry began to ask: "Who's doing all 

The editors had come to realize also that an occasional 
editorial on what Congress was doing was not enough. People 
wanted to know more about it. Much of the legislation favor- 
ing big finance was put over on the American populace while 
they were unaware of its significance. A long period of public 
apathy, and concealment of facts or indifference by the press, 
are largely responsible for the humiliating spectacle of a great 




nation ruled by the monarchs of money, who have become 
more of a menace to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness 
than George III and his Tory tyrants were to our forefathers. 

Brand Whitlock and I covered three conventions for the 
Metropolitan in 1912 the Republican in Chicago, the 
Democratic in Baltimore, and the Socialist in Indianapolis. 
We were given a great deal of space by the editors, and made 
the most of it. 

"And in each convention/' Whitlock wrote, "there was 
a vigorous personality, dynamic and compelling, which em- 
bodied the radical principle and troubled the conservative 
Haywood at Indianapolis, Roosevelt at Chicago, and Bryan 
at Baltimore. In each its colossus bestrode the scene, but here 
the lines of similarity diverge; Haywood forced a compro- 
mise and preserved the organization; Roosevelt was defeated 
and gallantly withdrew to raise his flag elsewhere; Bryan 
was victorious and for the fourth time in twenty years, 
wheeled his obstreperous and reluctant party into line/' 

Battles among the Socialists that year centered around the 
question of supporting the Industrial Workers of the World 
in their free speech fight in San Diego and the question of 
industrial versus craft unionism. And after those issues had 
been threshed out at length, the report of the committee on 
labor "confessed the failure of craft unionism but took no 
decided stand on the subject of industrial unionism, declaring 
it to be the party's duty to give moral and material support 
to the labor organizations in their offensive and defensive 
struggles against capitalist oppression and exploitation/' 

That committee also stated that the Socialist party had 
no part in controversies over the question of form of organi- 
zation, or technical methods of action in the industrial 

Thus the spokesmen for the fighting LW.W. were able 
to boast of a victory without dividing the party, and Bill 
Haywood, in a ringing speech of celebration, said: 

"This is the greatest step ever taken by the Socialist party 
of this country. Now I can go out and talk Socialism from a 
Socialist party platform to the entire working class, to the 
eight million women and children who have no votes, . . . 



AT THE 1912 SOCIALIST CONVENTION. Brand Whitlock wrote the 
story, while I did the pictures. Hay wood was the dominating figure. 

to the blanket stiffs of the West and the timber wolves of the 
South who are disfranchised by the nature- of their jobs/* 

In the many sketches I made for that article I dealt mainly 
with personalities, and it was especially gratifying to have a 



magazine with a huge circulation publish a whole gallery 
of my portraits of the leading lights in my own party* Some 
of those I portrayed were: Hay wood, "who sees enough with 
one eye*'; Debs, "who hovers over an audience like a big 
bird"; Dan Hogan, "from Arkansas and proud of it"; 

Charles W* Ervin, in a characteristic "Well, I'll be d " 

attitude; Barney Berlyn of Illinois, veteran Socialist; Victor 
L. Berger, only Socialist in Congress; Oscar Ameringer, "a 
man of gestures"; Joshua Wanhope, a big man wearing a 
cap; Meyer London; and Alexander Irvine. 

OSCAR AMERINGER, dean of American 
labor editors. Publisher of the American 
Guardian, Oklahoma City. 

I was in Washington during Woodrow Wilson's first ad- 
ministration and half of his second. Then as now corporation 
lawyers comprised most of the Senate and House, and they 
naturally made laws for the benefit of the corporations^! 
made a cartoon picturing the situation: "Laws for Capi- 
talism go through on wings; laws for Labor go through on 

Until just before the United States got into the war, the 
policy of the Metropolitan was definitely Socialistic, and it 
was well known that its financial backer was Harry Payne 
Whitney, a multi-millionaire. Finley Peter Dunne, who was 
Whitney's close friend, once told me he often twitted "Harry" 


for backing such a publication. He said he liked to whisper 
to him through clenched teeth: "Harry, I'm beginning to 
think you're one of those damned Socialists/' 

William Mailly was then doing a social comment depart- 
ment in the Metropolitan, and Clarence Day Jr. was handling 
book reviews. Some of the contributors were George Bernard 
Shaw, John Reed, Morris Hillquit, Ernestine Evans, Alger- 
non Lee, Rudyard Kipling, W. W. Jacobs, Gouverneur Mor- 
ris, Walter Lippmann, Boardman Robinson, Willy Pogany, 
Inez Haynes Gilmore, Fannie Hurst, and others. 

Usually I did two pages a month on the activities of 
Congress, for which I got $300 a page* It was of course 
worth more, for out of that I had to pay my expenses in the 
Capital, and I still felt it necessary to retain my studio in New 

On the day I arrived in the city of magnificent distances, 
the first thing that caught my eye as I stepped out of the 
Pennsylvania station was the dome of the capitol the dome 
which I had drawn so many times in the background of 
my cartoons but had never before seen. There it was the 
same dome which Nast and all cartoonists had used as a 
symbol of the government of the United States. Throughout 
most of my years in Washington I lived in hotels around 
Capitol Park, in the shadow of that dome, though for a 
few months I roomed a little farther away, north of the 
Congressional Library, with Isaac McBride, who was then 
secretary to Senator Harry Lane of Oregon. When I had to 
go up Pennsylvania Avenue, to the White House or to some 
government department, I'd roll along in a victoria. 

My father used to say that "an artist or a writer has an 
advantage over a storekeeper because he can carry his capital 
stock with him/* This stock of paper, pencils, ink, and other 
essentials of my profession, I could carry in a satchel, but I 
preferred to keep a supply in my hotel or rooming house 
ready for me on my return from New York, where I was 
expected to report once, sometimes twice, a month. 

It took me a few days to get my bearings when I first 
landed in the Capital. I knew I did not want the regular run 
of news that the Washington correspondents were sending 
out. Usually they just touched the surface of the stories really 
vital to the welfare of the multitude. 


I had entree to the House and Senate press galleries, but 
the atmosphere was not very cordial. I felt that there was 
some suspicion that because of my identity with radical publi- 
cations, I might be a disturbing factor to the morale of the 
other correspondents, or that I was up to some sinister plot 
to push over the pillars of the Republic. While some of the 
newspapermen were friendly, all were aware that I was not 
a "regular' '. 

I knew, of course, that I could not ignore the conventional 
subjects of interest the stars of statesmanship and their 
ways, and I got the whole Wilson Cabinet except William G. 
McAdoo, Secretary of the Treasury, to give me sittings of a 
few minutes each. McAdoo refused, but having seen him on 
a few occasions, I drew him from memory. 

I had a swanky card printed* It was folded two cards 
in one. Outside was printed: "The Metropolitan Magazine 
. . * Art Young/' Turn it over and there was space for 
writing my request to the Senator or to whom it might con- 
cern, and space for his answer. 

When I began drawing for the Masses it was like the 
unfolding of wings to soar; but the Metropolitan connection 
gave me an opportunity to circle around and then peer right 
in at government in the making. Whether it was just a mental 
heritage, I don't know, but I never could understand the 
Anarchist philosophy that people could get along without 
government. I could see no way for them to dispense with 
recognized laws or rules of some kind. If government was 
all nonsense, as some of my Anarchist friends believed, now 
I would try to find out* 

A suffragette once asked Bill Haywood, who leaned to- 
ward the anarcho-syndicalist faith, if he thought women 
should have the vote, and Bill said: "Sure, and besides, they 
can have mine/' Such was the indifference to political action 
held by many who could see no hope in the ballot, nor in 
the whole set-up of parliaments, but put their full faith 
in the organization of labor* 

During my years in Washington I learned why the capi- 
talists believed in a Congress, a Supreme Court, and in 
bureaus within bureaus and I saw their agents swarming 
at every session lobbying in their interests. 



It was a privilege to circulate among the "fittest" who 
had survived in the race for political preferment. Here they 
were. From President down to doorkeepers, I felt sociable 
with them, and they didn't seem to object to me. While I 
found it difficult to select my daily subjects for caricature 
because there was so much to select from, I soon felt that no 
one in the wide world ever had such luck. The magazine 
being a monthly there was no hurry, and I could take ample 
time to draw for the Masses too. Often I would hark back 
to the cartoons of national politics in Harper's Weekly and 
Pack which so absorbed my attention in early youth and 
here I was walking through corridors where the glamorous 
gods of American statesmanship once trod. 

I cultivated an old doorman of the Senate, then eighty- 
seven, who liked to talk about his memories of the long-ago 
years. He had been employed in the Capitol building since 
boyhood. I was a good listener, and would ask him: "Did 
you know Matt Carpenter from Wisconsin? . . . What 
kind of a fellow was Pig Iron Kelley? . . . Was Roscoe 
Conkling really so dignified and proud? . . Was Blaine 
the great debater they say he was? . . . How about Garfield 
when he was a Representative was he really eloquent?" 

Almost any question would set him going with delightful 
reminiscence. Once I said: "Do you remember Senator Sam 
Houston?" His old tired eyes lighted up. "Sam used to wear 
a panther-skin vest quite a man for the ladies." And he 
would recall that "Daniel Webster couldn't let liquor alone." 
And that "Stephen A. Douglas was a little feller but a good 
talker." Over in his room on a side street not far from the 
Capitol he had many inscribed photographs and other sou- 
venirs of Presidents and Congressmen he had known, dating 
back to 1850. 

I had a sense of well-being then. Nearly every month 
Whigham or Carl Hovey, the managing editor, would write 
that my work was "splendid" or "you're doing good stuff." 
What with my appearance in the Metropolitan and in other 
magazines, surely I was getting on. Occasionally I would 
find diversion in drawing a few allegorical pictures for other 
magazines. Late in 1912 Father wrote saying that the min- 
ister of the Universalist Church in Monroe had preached a 


sermon with one of my cartoons as the text. This had ap- 
peared in Collier's. In the background was a forest of tower- 
ing, ruler-straight pines, such as I had seen in Alabama. Down 
in front was one hopelessly deformed tree and a man similarly 
crippled and leaning on crutches. The caption was "Why?" 
and the minister had discussed the question: "What is life, 
and why?" Holding the picture up before his congregation, 
he said: "Many of you know the artist who drew this car- 
toon, for his first drawings were made in Monroe/' 

Life, 1912 

SUSAN B. ANTHONY. In 1872 she was fined $100 for voting in 
Rochester, N. Y. "The spirit of revolt, as shown by this splendid woman," 
said the caption with my cartoon, "is abroad in the land." 

Every week or two I was sending money to Elizabeth 
in California. In November she wrote from Los Angeles: 
"The boys are growing fast and doing well in school. Their 
teacher wants them to belong to a nature club. Donald will 
be eight the seventh of next month/* Then she sent a batch 
of drawings done by both boys, North having attained the 
age of ten. Most of them, I thought, were much like the usual 
child art, but a few were startlingly original. Elizabeth said 
they were drawn "especially for you", and added that "the 
boys like their bicycles/' 

This period of my life on the scene of national politics 
where I saw so much evidence of lying, demagogy, and down- 
right betrayal of the people, was enough to make me a hope- 
less cynic; nevertheless, I clung to an inborn faith in democ- 
racy. Hundreds of times this faith has been made to look 
like a stupid error, yet I hang on. 


I want the men in a factory to decide who shall be boss, 
I want the people, by majority vote in periodic elections, 
to decide issues and choose men and women whom they be- 
lieve capable of holding administrative positions. When it 
came to the question of the United States entering the Euro- 
pean war, I wanted the people to say whether they wished 
their government to declare war. When the LaFollette reso- 
lution for such a referendum was killed in Congress, I knew 
it was because Wall Street didn't want to know the will 
of the people. The people's desire to avoid becoming em- 
broiled in a foreign conflict, as demonstrated in the re-election 
of Woodrow Wilson in 1916 because he had so far "kept us 
out of war", might be repeated in another test vote, if the 
people were given a chance, and of course big business could 
not afford such a risk. 

Democracy is all right if they will let it work. By they 
I mean those who don't want it to work. And they have 
many cunning and extra-legal ways of defeating it. Democ- 
racy is all right if the issue is fairly clear but the enemies of 
democracy are masters of confusion; they stir the water in 
the spring- fed pool into mud. They take little unimportant 
truths and blow them up into big important-looking truths. 
In the chaos of political campaigns you try to find out what 
you believe, if there is anything to be believed. Nevertheless 
I continue to hold that even an imperfect democracy is better 
than other forms of government. Royalty is dying as it 
deserves, but the first king was called that because he was 
kind king and kind were synonymous in ancient times. 
Whoever the administrators of the future state, they must be 
exemplars of kindness or perhaps my meaning is scientific 
helpfulness, but helpfulness to the majority who do the 
world's work; the greatest good to the greatest number. 

And that is the dream which must some day come true 
the world over a social machinery vastly different from 
today's so-called democracies, which bring about the greatest 
good to the few not to the many. Surely, Washington was 
teaching me a few things. 

I still kept my studio in New York and retained my vot- 
ing status there. And my work in the national capital did 
not prevent my running for office in the Empire State in 







The Masses, 1913 

"HE STIRRETH UP THE PEOPLE." This portrait of Christ, as I 
conceived him, also was published with a reward notice describing him as a 
professional agitator "wanted for sedition." 

1913. That fall I was a candidate for the Assembly in the 
Twenty-seventh District on the Socialist ticket. My running 
mates were Charles Edward Russell, who sought to be 
Mayor; S. John Block, who was trying for the Supreme 
Court; and John Sloan, who was candidate for the Assembly 
in the Twenty-fifth District. 

At the suggestion of the campaign committee, some of 
my speeches were illustrated with rapid-fire drawings made 
on big sheets of paper on an easel as I talked. The audiences 
liked those pictorial attacks on the capitalist system, and 
demanded numerous encores, but their ballots did not total 
enough to elect me. 


Chapter 28 

WHILE the West Virginia coal strike was at its height 
in November, 1913, Max Eastman and I were in- 
dicted on a charge of criminal libel preferred by 
the heads of the Associated Press, This was based on a Masses 
editorial written by Max entitled "The Worst Monopoly" 
and a cartoon of mine called ' 'Poisoned at the Source/' On 
my next trip to New York I appeared in court voluntarily 
with Max, and Justice Grain of Special Sessions set our bail 
at $1,000. 

Max Eastman's editorial pointed out that the appalling 
industrial conditions in West Virginia had first become pub- 
licly known through a demand by Senator Kern for a Sena- 
torial investigation of stories of atrocities against workers and 
their families in the coal regions. 

For fourteen months, the editorial charged, the A.P. had 
withheld or distorted news of the West Virginia conflict. 
Calling the A.P. a Truth Trust, the Masses comment went 
on to say that "so long as the substance of current history 
continues to be held in cold storage, adulterated, colored 
with poisonous intentions, and sold to the highest bidder to 
suit his private purposes, there is small hope that even the 
free and the intelligent will take the side of justice in the 
struggle that is before us/' 

My cartoon which so wrought up the directors of the 
A.P. shows a man personifying the Associated Press kneel- 
ing at the edge of a vast reservoir in which the water is 
labeled The News. He is pouring into the reservoir the dark 
contents of bottles of Lies, Suppressed Facts, Prejudice, Slan- 
der, and Hatred of Labor Organization. In the background 
of the picture is a suggestion of cities and towns which depend 
upon the reservoir for their news supply. The clear water is 
being discolored by the poisonous dye-stuff from the bottles. 

We were not arrested. Efforts toward this end had been 



made by the A.P. in August, when one of its counsel appeared 
in Jefferson Market Court and asked for warrants for the 
arrest of the Masses editors, but the magistrate sitting there 
overruled the request on the ground of insufficient evidence. 

Reporting our arraignment, the New York Call said: 

"The attitude of the Associated Press on the West Vir- 
ginia strike was criticized many times in numerous publica- 
tions, and suppression and coloring of news was generally 
intimated. These allegations, however, being in some cases 
in large and powerful publications, backed by big financial 
interests, were ignored by the association. 

"It was not until the occasional, one-sided stories and the 
long periods of silence from the strike region were the subject 
of comment in the columns of a Socialist magazine that efforts 
were made to set the machinery of the law in motion against 
its publishers/' In other words, the great, powerful A.P. 
picked on a magazine so small that it created wide sentiment 
in our favor. 

At the same time the Call did us a signal service by 
publishing two paragraphs at the end of its front-page story 
which presumably gave the A.P. bojums pause. 

"Socialist and radical magazine men/' the Call said, 
"have been working for the past month in several of the cities 
of the Middle West gathering material in the interests of the 
Masses, and it was stated last night that should the charges 
of the A.P. really be maintained and the two defendants 
brought to trial, revelations of such a nature as to make 
the Associated Press regret that the case ever came to court 
would be unreservedly made. 

"Not only will the charges against the news association 
under consideration be substantiated, it was asserted, but other 
facts, now believed to be inside secrets of the Associated Press, 
will be made public/' 

Immediately many friends, old and new, rallied to our 
aid. Various newspaper men who had formerly worked for 
the Associated Press, and some who were then employed by 
it, came forward with information and documentary evidence 
of specific news suppression and distortion by that organiza- 
tion. All this material was turned over to a group of indi- 
viduals with research experience who checked it minutely 
before it was handed to our counsel for use as evidence. 


Floyd Dell had lately come East from Chicago, where he 
had been editor of the Evening Post literary supplement, and 
he was promptly picked to be associate editor of the Masses, 
which meant that he would share the work with Max East- 
man, who continued as editor. There would be plenty for 
both of them to do. By this time the magazine's income had 
reached a point where it was possible to pay each of them 
twenty-five dollars a week, with something also for a business 
manager. In January, 1914, we published a long statement 
about our case, signed by Floyd, in which he explained that 
after various important publications, including Collier's and 
the Independent, had "delicately hinted'' that the Associated 
Press had given the country no fair account of the West Vir- 
ginia situation, the Masses decided to look into it, with the 
idea that if the stories out of that State were true, they ought 
to be explicitly told, and not just hinted at. 

Now the grand jury brought in a second indictment, 
this time charging Max and me with criminally libeling 
Frank B. Noyes, president of the A.P. In February it de- 
veloped that this was designed as a piece of shrewd strategy. 
On the 1 Oth our attorney, Gilbert E. Roe, asked Judge Wad- 
hams for an order permitting the defense to take depositions 
from those in charge of the Associated Press office in Pitts- 
burgh, showing what news was actually sent out on the West 
Virginia strike. Arthur Train, assistant district attorney in 
charge of the prosecution, opposed this, and in the course of 
his argument mentioned that the first indictment, charging 
libel against the A.P. as an organization, would be dismissed. 

But on the 1 7th Judge Wadhams granted the order for 
the depositions. Then Train declared that he would oppose 
such an order in connection with the second indictment, on 
the ground that the depositions would not be admissible as 
evidence concerning the alleged libeling of the A.P. president, 
for the reason that the truth or falsity of Associated Press 
reports was immaterial to the question of personal damage 
against Mr. Noyes. 

Our friends arranged a mass-meeting in our behalf in 
Cooper Union on March 5, and 2,500 packed the Great Hall 
there. Hundreds stood in the aisles, with other hundreds 
turned away. Inez Milholland presided, and the speakers were 
Amos Pinchot who had made a careful study of our case 


from a lawyer's viewpoint; John Haynes Holmes, then pastor 
of the Church of the Messiah; Lincoln Steffens, Charlotte 
Perkins Oilman, William English Walling, Norman Hap- 
good, and Joseph D. Cannon, organizer for the Western 
Federation of Miners. Though grateful for the mass demon- 
stration, on that night the two who were accused stayed 
away from the meeting. We felt that the issue had become too 
big to make it personal. 

"I have had a long acquaintance with the Associated 
Press/' said Pinchot in his speech. "I am perfectly willing 
to stand behind the charge made by Eastman and Young that 
it does color and distort the news, that it is not impartial, 
and that it is a monopolistic corporation, not only in con- 
straint of news but in constraint of truth. 

"The Associated Press, through its capitalistic sympa- 
thies, is inclined to take the part of capital against labor. 
It has produced a condition where, during strikes and labor 
disputes of all kinds, the working people have grown to 
feel that their case, if given at all to the public, is presented 
in a grossly distorted form. 

"I believe that no one element in American life is so 
powerfully conducive of bitterness and that feeling of help- 
lessness, which so often results in violence, as the coloring 
of news during acute conflicts between capital and labor. On 
the other hand, it gives to men, such as the gunmen recently 
imported into Calumet by the mine operators, and to the 
mine operators themselves, a feeling of immunity from public 
criticism which is inevitably a dangerous element in the case/' 

Two days later the Times commented on the mass-meet- 
ing in an editorial more than a column long. Defending the 
A.P., the Times asserted that Mr* Pinchot was careless in his 
statements, and that it would be impossible for the Associated 
Press to color and distort the news as we had charged. 

"All sorts of newspapers/' the Times averred, "are served 
by the Associated Press Republican, Democratic, Bull 
Moose, Independent, pro-Bryan, anti-Bryan, some that insist 
that the corporations are too much abused, and others insist- 
ing that they are not abused enough in short, newspapers 
representing every shade of opinion.* Now, if Mr. Noyes 

* Italics are the author's. An unnamed spokesman for the A. P. had stated 
in the New York Evening Post that "its members, some nine hundred in 


should attempt to use his dyestuffs on the news served to all 
these papers, there would be a deafening uproar and tumult 
all over the country. The Associated Press would be split 
into fragments and the views openly expressed of its manage- 
ment would make the cartoon of the Masses look like an ex- 
pression of confidence and esteem/* 

Amos Pinchot had called for a widespread protest against 
the use of the federal district attorney's office for the muzzling 
of those who criticized the Associated Press procedure. "Mr. 
Pinchot should understand/' said the Times, "that this is 
not an Associated Press suit; it is a Government suit, an 
action brought by the people to punish the lawless/* 

Meanwhile I traveled back and forth between New York 
and Washington frequently. One day while I was at work in 
my hotel room in the capital, there was a knock at the door, 
and Senator Robert LaFollette Sr. looked in on me. "Hello, 
Art/' he said, "I just want to say that if I can do anything 
for you in regard to that Associated Press case let me know/' 
I expressed my appreciation of this magnanimous offer, and 
told him I would keep it in mind if need for his help should 
arise. LaFollette had long been the subject of vitriolic news- 
paper attacks because of his stand against the big corporations 
and the system of which they were a part. 

Months passed, and our case did not come to trial. It 
was apparent from tips we got from friendly sources that 
the A.P. was in the position of the hunter who had a bear 
by the tail and didn't know how to let go of it. A year 
after the accusation the newspapers reported that the indict- 
ments had been dismissed, and our bail was returned without 
explanation by the district attorney's office, 

We held a celebration in the Masses office, and in high 
spirits I drew two cartoons for the next issue which conveyed 
the prevailing sentiments of our editorial and art boards to- 
ward our late adversary. In one I depicted the Associated 
Press as a stout and elegantly dressed woman out for a walk; 
she was carrying several packages, one being labeled Probity, 
and a poodle dog called Aristocracy; and out of her armful 
of impedimenta a legal scroll bearing the words The Masses 
Case had fallen to the ground. The caption was: "You 

number, represent every shade of political and economic opinion." This of course 
was not quite the truth. 


Dropped Something, Madam/' ... In the other cartoon, 
a double-page spread, I pictured the Associated Press as an 
angel hovering over the news reservoir pouring perfume into 
it from a pretty bottle labeled Truth. 

Since that episode the A.P. and most of the big daily 
newspapers in this country have been more careful in hand- 
ling news of strikes and the whole industrial conflict. That 
of course has been brought about largely by the growing 






WHEN I WAS UNDER A CLOUD, as a result of the libel suit brought 
by the Associated Press. 

strength of labor unionism and its better publicity facilities. 
But I like to think that some of the credit for this improve- 
ment is due to the protest which we of the Masses made 
twenty-six years ago* 

Some time in 1914 I was proposed for membership 
in the National Press Club in Washington, only to find 
that my record was against me, particularly the cartoon 
attacking the Associated Press, for which I had been indicted. 
Some of the membership committee (and especially one who 
had proposed me) dissented vigorously against the attitude 
of those to whom I was anathema. But it did no good then. 


Several years later, however, I was proposed for the club 
again and was elected as an out-of-town member. By that 
time I had quit Washington for good, and in a little while 
I resigned. 

Chapter 29 

SOCIALISM was being frankly advocated by H. J. Whig- 
ham in his editorials in the Metropolitan Magazine in 
1914. He dealt with the European conflict at length in 
October, asking and answering two questions: ."Where is 
Socialism now? Why did not the Socialists stop the war?" 
Algernon Lee did social comment in a department headed 
Tidings of the Times, Two letters from John Reed in Mexico 
were published, heralding a series of articles on Francisco 
Villa's war for "land and liberty" for the peons. Lincoln 
Steffens dealt with the failure of government by "good 

I had a free hand in portraying the solemn gestures and 
grotesque antics of Congress each month, often in a double- 
page spread. Out of the 520 members of both houses, I found 
that at least 500 were lawyers. Elected by and for the people, 
the bulk of that august assemblage spent most of its time 
gumming up legislation instead of working for the benefit 
of those who elected them. As comedy, if one could overlook 
the underlying tragedy of the whole scene, Congress was the 
best show in the country for a cartoonist* 

My pictures and text appeared under a different heading 
each month. Some of the titles were: "Here They Are Again" 
. , . "Gumshoeing Around Washington" . . . "What's 
Doing on the Potomac" . . * "Be It Resolved" . . . "Let 
the Thinking People Rule" . . . "Making History, Such 
As It Is" , . , "This Tragicomic World" . . . "Can Such 
Things Be?" 

Once I had occasion to remark that "The old judge in the 
trial scene in a well-known vaudeville act never tried harder 
to get order in the court by being disorderly himself than 
does Speaker Champ Clark." . , . Senator Ollie James of 
Kentucky, who weighed 270 pounds and looked like 400 
was always good copy. He never denied any of the many 



anecdotes about him, most of which concerned his bulk. One 
told of his dislike for upper berths. Once he drew an upper 
in starting from Louisville for Washington. A man weighing 
about 110 had the lower. He looked worried when he saw 
the mountainous Senator. James grabbed the framework of 
his bed and shook it violently. 'Tm always afraid of these 
damned upper berths/' he said. "The last one I was in fell 
down with me/' The little man was magnanimous. '1*11 
change with you. I sleep better in an upper/' 

Mother Jones came to Washington and told a Congres- 
sional committee about the terror in the West Virginia coal 
regions. I pictured her, and wrote that it was not easy to 

portray that "benign and yet so belligerent" face. When she 
was held captive by the West Virginia authorities she said 
to them: "You can stand me up against that wall and riddle 
me with bullets, but you can't make me surrender/* Whigham 
also did an editorial on Mother Jones versus Rockefeller. 

Jack Reed had written some richly colored articles about 
Villa's war, portraying him as a man of destiny* After the 
coal operators' machine guns had rained death upon the 
miners* tent colony in Ludlow, Colorado, the Metropolitan 
telegraphed Jack to jump to that area. He got there in time 
to do a trenchant article for the next issue, which said: "There 
is no thing .revolutionary about this strike. The strikers are 
neither Socialists, Anarchists, nor Syndicalists/' The article 
opened with this excerpt from testimony given before a Con- 
gressional investigating commission: 


HERRINGTON (attorney for the Colorado Fuel 
and Iron Company) "Just what is meant by 'social 
freedom* I don't know. Do you understand what the 
witness meant by 'social freedom', Mr. Welborn?" 

MR. WELBORN (president of the Colorado Fuel 
and Iron Company) "I do not/' 

Walter Lippmann contributed to the Metropolitan an 
article on President Wilson and Little Business, which I illus- 


NOT HARMONIOUS. President Wilson tries to get Secretary of State 
Bryan in key. 

trated. It quoted Wilson's declaration in The New Freedom: 
"I am for big business, and I am against the trust*'. And 
Lippmann commented; -"He knows that there is a new world 
demanding new methods, but he dreams of an older world: 
He is torn between the two/* . . . When Lippmann did 
another article called A Key to the Labor Movement, I fur- 
nished a cartoon showing capitalists massed in regiments, 
with a caption saying: "Employers should organize sure, 


that's sound sense but the workingman should go it alone/' 
Alongside was a companion picture in which a worker stood 
reading a placard on a factory wall: "TO LABOR, a warn- 
ing: Be free to work independently trust the generosity of 
your employers Don't submerge your individuality in a 

In one of my articles I reprinted the first two published 
cartoons of Theodore Roosevelt one from Harpers Weekly 
by Nast in 1884 and the other from Pack in 1886. T. R. 
was 26 years old and a member of the New York State Leg- 
islature in 1884. 

"In the 50 years since caricature became a feature of 
American journalism/' I pointed out, "no man has been the 
subject of so many cartoons as Roosevelt. A cartoon com- 
posite of him would include Don Quixote, Tamerlane, Na- 
poleon, Ananias, Cromwell, Wallenstein, Peter the Great, 
the Wild Horse of Tartary, Dn Dowie, a prize-fighter, Savo- 
narola, a circus performer, a hyena, a snapping turtle, the 
Angel of Peace, Ivan the Terrible, Mohammed, and Moses." 

Jack Reed and I were assigned by the Metropolitan to 
cover the national political conventions in 1916. And at the 
same time I was asked by the Newspaper Enterprise Associa- 
tion of Cleveland to draw cartoons at the conventions in 
collaboration with Charles Edward Russell, who was han- 
dling the news end for it The N.E.A. was then an offshoot 
of the Scripps-McRae newspapers (now the Scripps- 
Howard) , and through its service my cartoons went in ma- 
trix form to several hundred dailies, including the New York 
Call Indianapolis News, New Orleans States, Portland 
(Ore.) News, Seattle Star, Cleveland Press, Chicago Evening 
Post, Detroit News, Memphis Press, Oklahoma News, San 
Diego Sun, Cincinnati Post, Des Moines News. 

In Chicago the work was hard, since there were two 
conclaves to attend, the Republican in the Coliseum and the 
Progressive iri the Auditorium, several blocks apart. There 
was always the feeling that while we were at one of these, 
something highly exciting might happen at the other which 
we ought not to miss. 

Numerous dark horses were in evidence in the G. O* P. 
ranks throughout that tense week, with the possibility that 


any one of them might break loose and gallop to victory* So 
it was real news when Justice Charles E. Hughes of the 
Supreme Court was nominated on Saturday, 

Over at the Bull Moose meeting place I sat just be- 
hind William Jennings Bryan and his wife. He was there 
reporting the affair for a newspaper syndicate. I talked with 
Bryan during a lull, commending the stand he had taken on 
the European mess, which had led to his resignation as Secre- 
tary of State under Woodrow Wilson. He said: "It's like a 
terrible fever that will have to run its course/' 

Newspaper Enterprise Association 

WHERE WILL IT STRIKE? Line-up of willing candidates at the 1916 
Republican convention at Chicago, where I saw "all the favorite sons, and 
dark horses, too, waiting to be hit.''" 

I saw the mighty demonstration that had its climax in the 
nomination of Theodore Roosevelt by the Progressives, fol- 
lowed by the reading of his letter declining to run unless 
Hughes proved himself unsound on the issues of Americanism 
and preparedness and pacifistic, pussy- footed, or pro-German. 
This was a bitter blow to the Bull Moose legions, since it 
plainly left them out on a limb. In a long telegram of accept- 
ance that afternoon Justice Hughes expressed his belief in 
"unflinching maintenance of all the rights of American 
citizens on land and sea . . . an Americanism that knows no 
ulterior purpose ... adequate preparedness ... the ideals 
of honorable peace/' So T. R. was quickly out of the running* 


We went on that night to St. Louis, where the Democrats 
were assembling. There was no doubt in the air as to where 
the lightning would strike here; Wilson was a foregone con- 
clusion. But anyhow the delegates went through all the usual 
motions of a contest. I remember chiefly the eloquent speeches 
by Senator Ollie James of Kentucky, former Governor Mar- 
tin Glynn of New York, and William Jennings Bryan. When 
they referred to the President as "a man of peace" who had 
"kept us out of war/' the spectators in the galleries and many 
delegates were carried to such emotional heights as to make the 
scene look like a religious revival. 

Cries of "Bryan! Bryan!" from so many parts of the 
convention hall greeted the appearance of the Commoner in 
the press gallery at the final session that the chairman sus- 
pended the rules to permit him to speak from the platform. 

"I have had differences of opinion with President Wil- 
son," he said, "but I join the people in thanking God that 
we have a President who does not want the nation to fight." 
Those who had feared he might recall, for purposes of 
party disruption, their conflict over Wilson's Lusitania policy, 
were now set at ease. Bryan was at this moment the perfect 
harmonizer, forgetting personal ambition and old quarrels. 
"As a Democrat," he declared, "I want my party to have the 
honor of bringing the peace about, and I want the country 
to give Woodrow Wilson a chance to bring it about." 

Peggy and Orrick Johns attended the convention regu- 
larly, and Jack and I lunched with them in the Planters' 
Hotel and spent some pleasant hours in their country home 
out in the Meramec hills. Orrick harks back to my "declaiming 
in the manner of a Southern Senator" and remembers how 
Reed, "a big curly-haired kid wearing dark workman's shirts 
and the best tweeds, would comment on the wildeyed ap- 
pearance of the delegates, or tear into the fallacies of the 
windy monologues." 

Often the correspondents for various capitalist papers 
would tell me of a Congressman or of some one in a federal 
department who would make good copy for me, but not for 
them. They had to concern themselves with public men who 
were strictly "regular," or on occasion those wko made news 
because no one took them seriously. 


"Say, Young, you ought to see Lindbergh. There's a 
man for you/' said one of these correspondents. He secretly 
admired Charles A. Lindbergh Sr., but knew that this Min- 
nesota Representative was frowned upon by his paper be- 
cause of his political beliefs. 

In Washington no observer can escape from the consensus 
of opinion among the scores of correspondents from all over 
the country as to what is news of public interest and who 
should get publicity. Lindbergh, father of a boy then in short 
pants who in a few years would suddenly become world- 
famous, was not regular news. Elected on the Farmer-Labor 
ticket, he was so irregular that he started an investigation of 
the House of Morgan. Also I had heard casually of a bill he 
had introduced to provide easy credit for farmers, and of his 
exposures of the banking system, in speeches and pamphlets 
that everybody could understand. Being so different, he 
would naturally be of interest only to a cartoonist and com- 
mentator who was himself outside the pale. Such was my 
reputation for having radical views. 

I found Lindbergh in his room in the House Office 
Building, and told him I'd like to make a sketch of him for 
the Metropolitan. Courteous enough, he seemed neither will- 
ing nor unwilling to have me go ahead. He was sitting at his 
desk, and I said: '"Just as you are is all right/' A stoical 
Swede, I thought, as I began drawing from the brow down, 
as is my usual way. Stoical and a man of home-spun integrity, 
I felt, as I limned the contour of his strong face and came to 
the big gnarled hands. I was not long at my work as he sat 
patiently looking out the window, and occasionally at his 
desk, where correspondence and memoranda of a Congress- 
man's duties stared him in the face. 

My informant was right "You ought to see Lind- 
bergh/' I had seen and sketched Knute Nelson, banker Sena- 
tor from the same state, a hard-boiled regular, also a Swede. 
Of him my most distinct memory is that he could make the 
brass spittoon near his desk on the Senate floor ring with 
powerful shots of tobacco juice. When the Senate was quiet 
Knute's echoing sluice was a sure sign that "God's in his 
heaven, all's right with the world" for the bankers. Lindbergh 
had vision, while the seniof Senator from Minnesota was a 
prize example of a man without vision. 


The younger Lindbergh must have inherited some of his 
father's imagination for the son was certain he could do 
what others thought foolhardy, and did it. Lindbergh senior 
was farther ahead of time than his boy. But what he ad- 

vocated also will be done. The spirit of Lindbergh senior will 
carry on. He voted against American entrance into the Euro- 
pean war, and fought for peace during that conflict. His idea 
was that human life is at least as sacred as wealth; so he 
urged the conscription of wealth to pay the money costs of 
the fighting. He recommended that the government take over 


the telegraph, telephone, banking, and transportation sys- 
tems. He hated Wall Street and wrote and published a book, 
Why Is Your Country At War?, which was promptly sup- 
pressed and the page plates confiscated by the federal au- 

So inflamed can a whole nation become through the in- 
sidious propaganda of newspapers that on more than one 
occasion in those days Lindbergh's life was in danger while 
he was speaking as a candidate for Governor of Minnesota, 
his last campaign in his home state, where his record for 
honesty and unswerving principle was known to everybody. 
"You ought to see Lindbergh/' and I saw him a man who 
deserves to live endlessly in the history of his country. He 
was more of a lone eagle than his son. He soared higher and 
with a nobler purpose, but the bitter unreasoning storm of 
public opinion was against him. 

Wilson's administration was a shining target for the 
Metropolitan throughout the Princeton professor's first term, 
and the magazine kept on throwing big chunks of criticism 
at him long after this country was dragged into the war. 

"The charge against Mr. Wilson/* Whigham wrote in 
December, 1916, "is that he has poisoned the wells of truth. 
The one man who ought to be candor incarnate, he has made 
the written word of the President of the United States a 
laughing stock of all the world/' And a month later, under 
the heading of Farewell, Old Guard, the editor added: "For 
four years we have been opposed to the policy of Mr. Wilson 
and the Democratic party. Long before the war broke out our 
opposition to Mr. Wilson was based on the fact that his main 
ideas of government were reactionary rather than progres- 

Theodore Roosevelt, who by this time was being widely 
advertised as a contributing editor (having resigned as an 
editor of the Outlook) , had an article in the same issue 
entitled "Good Americans Should Support Mr. Hughes/' 

On the day when Wilson signed the Porto Rico bill I 
went to the White House, curious to see for once how a Presi- 
dent looked when he affixed his name to such a document 
with three different pens, each of which would be given (like 
Babe Ruth baseballs) to notables directly concerned with the 
event. I arrived late, however, because the cab-horse which 


brought me was tired and the cab needed oiling, and Secretary 
Tumulty said the ceremony was all over but that the Presi- 
dent was still in the reception room, and said to me, "Go 
on in/' and I did. The President was shaking hands with 
some of the guests, and when they left him I introduced 
myself as the Washington correspondent of the Metropolitan. 

He didn't show any emotion at that, but said, "The 
Metropolitan doesn't like me very much, does it?" 

"Well, you may have noticed, Mr, President/' I an- 
swered, "that I've never drawn any especially harsh cartoons 
of you, nor written anything libelous about you/' 

Then I made some conversation about the difficulties of 
his high office, and told him the Porto Rico bill "ought to 
improve that situation," and I ended by asking him a question 
that I heard people ask in Wisconsin in my boyhood: "Do 
you sleep well?" 

He didn't reply to that, but a ghost of a smile crossed 
his face, and he said: "Good day, Mr* Young." Going out 
I mentioned to Tumulty that I saw the President and that 
"everything went all right," 

Some three weeks after Wilson began his second term I 
happened to be in the office of Senator Harry Lane of Oregon 
one morning. He handed me a newspaper he had been reading, 
and pointing to a headline which stated that J. Pierpont 
Morgan was a Washington visitor, he said: "Our government 
has arrived!" 

Official sources had just announced that Morgan had 
agreed to lend $1,000,000 for the Army, without interest, to 
permit the continued purchase of supplies for which Congress 
had refused money. Next day the Evening Star stated that 
"indications grew stronger today that President Wilson will 
ask Congress next Tuesday to declare that a state of war 
exists between Germany and the United States/' 

And a few days later he who had "kept us out of war" 
went before that body and made a speech about the failure 
of neutrality. What followed is familiar history conscrip- 
tion of youth, the beating down of all opposition by a reign 
of terror, vast profiteering, and a deluge of blood and tears. 

I sat in the Senate press gallery when Wilson delivered 
his so-called peace message to Congress, which in its essence 




was a preliminary pronouncement of wan So well groomed 
that he resembled a fashion-plate, the Chief Executive walked 
down the aisle with almost everybody cheering as he mounted 
the dais. Here he shook hands with Vice-President Marshall 
adjusted his eye-glasses, looked out over the audience for 
several seconds, and then began reading the fateful message 
amid a great silence. 

My ears caught scarcely any of his words* I wasn't listen- 
ing to them ; I could read the salient points in the newspapers. 
But I knew the die had been cast. I was thinking of what 
inevitably lay ahead, and wondering what my radical friends 
who had upheld Wilson's course and motives would have to 
say now. Lincoln Steffens, John Reed, and many others had 
contended clear up to that point that he would stick to his 
announced policy and "keep us out of war." But I didn't 
believe it, and had said so over and over again. I felt he 
would like to, but I said: "They won't let him." 

I knew, as everyone handling news did, how the propa- 
ganda factories were working ceaselessly to force us into the 
slaughter. . . , And as I pondered all this, sitting there 
among the press correspondents, I wasn't looking at Wilson 
I was watching the face of Uncle Joe Cannon of Illinois. 
It was the color of an old plow-share covered with red rast, 
and he looked at the President as if approving every word he 
said. Hard-boiled Republican though he was, for once he 
was in agreement with a Democratic President. And the mem- 
bers of the Supreme Court also were there looking on with 
satisfied expressions. 

Jeannette Rankin had just begun to serve her term as 
Representative from Montana when the infamous war reso- 
lution sponsored by Wilson came crashing into Congress for 
immediate attention, with the eyes and ears of the world 
waiting for the verdict. I had been hanging around the 
Capitol all day on April 5, and had gone home late that 
night, sick at heart because I was sure the measure was going 
to pass. About 3 a.m. the vote of the House was taken with 
50 members against and 373 for war. 

I heard about the ordeal next day from those who had 
seen the session through. As the roll was called, and the read- 
ing clerk shouted "Rankin of Montana!", there was no re- 


sponse. Then, louder: ' 'RANKIN OF MONTANA!" Visibly 
overcome and sobbing in despair, she answered: "I want to 
stand by my country, but I cannot vote for war/* 

So Jeannette Rankin, in that nest of dominant males, 
made herself heard. If the manner was essentially feminine, 
nevertheless it was truly the voice of the maternal instinct 
which seeks to protect life rather than destroy it. 

More disillusionment came to me that spring when the 
Socialist party's emergency convention in St. Louis split on 
the question of opposing the war, I had long held the belief 
that all Socialists would logically oppose a capitalistic and 
imperialistic war in which the proletarian masses of the 
countries involved would be the great losers. Ever since the 
carnage had begun in Europe, the Socialists in this country 
had been almost unanimously against entering it I had 
felt secure in the belief that the party would unflinchingly 
stand its ground. 

But there was bitter controversy on the convention floor 
when a resolution condemning the entrance of the United 
States into the European holocaust was offered for passage. 
After acrimonious debate a majority comprising some three 
fourths of the delegates adopted such a measure which said: 

The only struggle which would justify the workers in taking 
up arms is the great struggle of the working class of the world 
to free itself from economic exploitation and political oppression. 
As against the false doctrine of national patriotism, we uphold 
the ideal of international working class solidarity. In support of 
capitalism, we will not willingly give a single life or a single 
dollar; in support of the struggle of the workers for freedom, we 
pledge all. . . . We brand the declaration of war by our gov- 
ernment as a crime against the people of the United States and 
against the nations of the world. The Socialist Party emphati- 
cally rejects the proposal that in time of war the workers should 
suspend their struggle for better conditions. On the contrary, the 
acute situation created by war calls for an even more vigorous 
prosecution of the class struggle. 

Countering this position, a minority resolution uphold- 
ing the war was insisted upon by the remaining fourth of the 
delegates, among whom were Charles Edward Russell, John 


Spargo, William English Walling, Upton Sinclair, X G. 
Phelps Stokes, W. J. Ghent, Charmion London, and George 
Sterling. The report of these dissenters held that now that 
this nation was in the war, that war must be "recognized" 
as a fact; that Socialists should support it and help carry it 
to a successful conclusion as soon as possible* 

Rose Pastor Stokes and her husband, X G. Phelps Stokes, 
subsequently resigned from the party to express their opposi- 
tion to the majority resolution, which in a referendum was 
adopted by the party membership by a vote of about ten to 
one. Printed copies of that resolution were confiscated as 
"treasonable" by Department of Justice agents. 

And Clarence Darrow, supposedly a competent thinker, 
also took a pro-war position. Though I still think that all of 
that group were wrong, I have never believed that personal 
antipathy for them, because of their attitude, should have 
been carried over for a single day beyond the Armistice by 
any of us who opposed entry of the United States into the 
war. I have a talent for reserving judgement, sometimes re- 
serving it so long, however, that it becomes a fault. 

That session of Congress had opened with an excited 
determination of many members to reduce the cost of living, 
which had hit top figures. Many schemes were offered. But 
only one man in this conclave of statesmen met the issue with 
a clear, convincing solution. Champ Clark, Representative 
from Missouri, when asked by a reporter how the people 
could meet the rising costs of subsistence, said: "Eat mush" 
and added that "everyone also ought to keep some hens/' 
So I came out in my Metropolitan department for Champ 
Clark for our next President on a one-plank platform: 
Eat mash! 

Later, in a page headed Flopping Around, I had a cartoon 
of Herbert Hoover tossing out advice so much needed by the 
millions of families living on $15 a week: "Save the scraps 
. . * Economy . . . Don't eat unless hungry . . Don't 
buy in carload lots." 

Memories of industrial turmoil in the Eighties, and the 
tendency of men to get in out of the storm when the elements 
battered them too harshly, were recalled by my discovery of 
an old-timer at a desk in the Department of Labor on which 


one would always see an orange or an apple mixed up with 
the documents of business. This was Terence V. Powderly, 
who in the Eighties was Grand Master Workman (the prin- 
cipal officer) of the Knights of Labor, the first powerful 
union of workers in the United States. There in Washington, 
he was assistant to the Commissioner of Immigration. Seldom 
did his name get into print; he was no longer news for the 
press which had once regarded him as a force to reckon with 
in the struggle of labor for a decent livelihood. 

Senator Sherman of Illinois was often a good source of 
copy for me on dull days. He had a large store of anecdotes. 

S* ^v. 


TERENCE V. PQWDERLY. Head of the militant Knights of Labor, he 
was National Villain No. 1 in the press of the Eighties. When I made this 
profile in 1918, he was Assistant Immigration Commissioner. 

It was easy to get him to slant himself against his desk and 
start telling stories. One of his tales was about an illiterate 
man leaning against the frame of a courtroom doorway. 
Somebody came along and asked him: "What's the judge 
doing in there?" and the illiterate citizen said: "He's giving 
his obstructions to the jury/' 

Roosevelt clamored in the Metropolitan for our entrance 
into the war in an article entitled Now We Must Fight and 
another called Put the Flag on the Firing Line. After that 
wish was gratified, T. R. came out in May, 1917, with a 
treatise on Liberal Russia in which he said: "The great demo- 
cratic revolution in Russia was successfully carried through 
just before the United States entered into the war on the 


side of the Allies. . . . We of the United States most earn- 
estly wish well to Russia. We believe that she has before her 
a career of really stupendous greatness/' And he said also: 
"We .most earnestly hope that the sinister extremists, always 
associated with any revolution, will not gain control/' This 
was in pre-Kerensky days, and before the Bolsheviki had 
been heard of in this country. 

Whigham continued to criticize the Wilson administra- 
tion, holding that "our democracy was on trial/' "If we want 
to make the world safe for democracy/' he said editorially 
in July, "there are two things we must surely do. 1. We must 
so deal with Germany that neither she nor any other great 
power will ever again think it worth while to start out on a 
career of world conquest. ... 2. To make democracy safe 
we must make democracy self-supporting. Washington at the 
present moment is rather a deplorable spectacle." 

The development of that theme brought numerous pro- 
tests, and in August Whigham was clearly on the defensive 
against the pressure of the super-patriots. Under ,the heading 
"This Is Our War" he stated the Metropolitan's position. 
Some readers, he explained, had objected to the July editorial 
as an attack on the national administration. But neither the 
President nor any of his advisers were sacrosanct, the Metro- 
politan's editor insisted, and it deplored the idea held by well- 
meaning people that loyalty and patriotism meant standing 
by the Administration and doing little else. "Whatever the 
President does toward winning this war in the shortest and 
most effective way has our enthusiastic support/* 

Chapter 30 

K)UGH going had been encountered by the Masses in 
its efforts to remain a medium for free interpretation 
in a time of hysteria. Because of its pitiless reporting 
in trying to reveal true causes, its lack of respect for com- 
mercialized religion, and its attacks on sex taboos in art and 
literature, the magazine had earlier been barred from the 
reading rooms of many libraries, ousted from the subway and 
elevated news stands in New York, and refused by the large 
distributing companies of Boston and Philadelphia; and our 
right to use the mails in Canada had been revoked by the 
Dominion government. 

One poem by Carl Sandburg had caused an issue to be 
held up in the New York post office for two days, and some 
subscriptions were stopped on account of it. This was dedi- 
cated to Billy Sunday, and the opening lines read: 

You come along . . . tearing your shirt . . . yelling 
about Jesus. 

I want to know . . . what the hell . . . you know 
about Jesus. 

Jesus had a way of talking soft and everybody except 
a few bankers and higher-ups among the con-men 
of Jerusalem liked to have this Jesus around because 
he never made any fake passes and everything he said 
went and he helped the sick and he gave the people 

Frequently we reprinted bits from the daily newspapers 
which needed no satirical comment to give them bite. For 
example, the mention of a woman who wrote to the Phila- 
delphia North American telling how she fed a family of six 
on $3 a week, and that publication's response: "The North 
American . . . publicly acknowledges its admiration for such 
a fine manager, A few of this sort in each community in the 



land would soon put an end to the high cost of living agita- 

For three months after the United States declared war on 
Germany the Masses kept on assailing the jingoists, the profit- 
eers, and the capitalists who caused the beating and deporta- 
tion of strikers, the Post Office censorship, and other evils 
which had been loosed in the campaign to silence all critics 
of the war administration. If anyone questioned the maga- 
zine's course, the editors were able to point to a statement by 
President Wilson for justification. Shortly after the declara- 
tion he had said : 

I can imagine no greater dis-service to the country 
than to establish a system of censorship that would 
deny to the people of a free republic like our own their 
undisputable right to criticize their own public officials. 
While exercising the great powers of the office I hold, I 
would regret in a crisis like the one which we are now 
passing to lose the benefits of patriotic and intelligent 

On July 3 the August issue of the Masses was delivered to 
the New York Post Office. Copies of this were immediately 
sent to Washington "for examination/' the editors were in- 
formed. Two days later a letter came from Postmaster T. G. 
Patten of Manhattan, stating that according to advices from 
the Solicitor of the Post Office Department, that issue was 
unmailable under the Act of June 15, 1917, which meant the 
Espionage Act. It was understood that the Solicitor, the At- 
torney General, and Judge Advocate General Crowder of the 
U. S. Army had conferred about excluding the magazine 
from the mails. In a statement in our September number, 
explaining what happened to the August issue, there was a 
footnote: "Date of conference unknown; rumor that the 
Generals, in spite of pressure of war-business, celebrated In- 
dependence Day by deciding to suppress the Masses, cannot 
be verified/ ' 

Merrill Rogers, our business manager, hastened to Wash- 
ington and interviewed Solicitor Lamar, who declined to say 
what provisions of the Espionage Act had been violated by 
the Masses for August, or what parts of the magazine violated 
that law. 


Immediately we retained Gilbert E. Roe as counsel. He 
had handled our fight against the Associated Press libel suit. 
On July 12 he filed a motion in the federal court to enjoin 
the postmaster from excluding the magazine from the mails. 
All-day argument on this motion was held before Judge 
Learned Hand on July 21. And now we got a hint of how 
the Espionage Act would be used as a club against people 
with anti-war beliefs. Assistant U. S. District Attorney Earl 
Barnes set forth that the Post Office Department construed 
that act as giving it power to bar from the mails anything 
which might interfere with the successful conduct of the war, 

Barnes offered as exhibits four cartoons and four pieces 
of text in the August issue as specific law violations. These 
cartoons were Boardman Robinson's ''Making the World 
Safe for Democracy/' two by H. J. Glintenkamp having to 
do with Conscription and the Liberty Bell, and one by my- 
self on Congress and Big Business. The objectionable writ- 
ings were: "A Question/' an editorial by Max Eastman; "A 
Tribute/' a poem by Josephine Bell; an editorial, "Friends 
of American Freedom"; and a paragraph in an article on 
"Conscientious Objectors/' 

"But/' said Roe, in his argument, "the Espionage Act 
was designed chiefly to strike at agents of enemy countries, 
and was never intended to prohibit political criticism or dis- 
cussion. To permit the Post Office Department to use it as a 
cover for arbitrary acts of suppression would be to recognize 
a censorship set up without warrant of law." 

Granting a temporary injunction against the postmaster, 
Judge Hand upheld Roe's contention completely in a memor- 
able decision. That decision, boiled down, emphasized the 
following points: There was no valid basis for the peculiar 
construction placed by the postal authorities on the Espion- 
age Act. The Masses for August did not violate the specific 
provisions of the law. Its cartoons and editorials fell "within 
the scope of that right to criticize, either by temperate reason- 
ing or by immoderate and indecent invective, which is norm- 
ally the privilege of the individual in countries dependent 
upon the free expression of opinion as the ultimate source 
of authority/' 

Expression of such opinion might militate against the 
success of the war, Judge Hand pointed out, but Congress 


had not seen fit to exclude it from the mails, and only Con- 
gress had the power to do this. The pictures and text com- 
plained of might tend to promote disaffection with the war, 
but they could not be thought to counsel insubordination in 
the military or naval forces "without a violation of their 
meaning quite beyond any tolerance of understanding/' The 
Glintenkamp cartoon on conscription might "breed such 
animosity toward the Draft as will promote resistance and 
strengthen the determination of those disposed to be recal- 
citrant/' but it did not tell people that it was their duty nor 
to their interest to resist the law. The text objected to ex- 
pressed "high admiration for those who have held and are 
holding out for their convictions even to the extent of re- 
sisting the law/' But the expression of such admiration, Judge 
Hand held, was not a violation of the Espionage Act. 

On July 26 a formal order requiring the postmaster to 
transmit the August Masses through the mails was signed by 
Judge Hand. And on the same day, in Windsor, Vermont, 
250 miles away, U. S. Circuit Judge C. M. Hough signed 
another order staying execution of Judge Hand's injunction 
and requiring the contending parties to appear before him in 
Windsor on August 2 to show cause why this stay should 
not be made permanent pending an appeal which had been 
taken by Postmaster Patten. 

It would be several months before the appeal could be 
heard. Meanwhile, the Masses explained in its September 
issue, "our attorney will oppose the staying of Judge Hand's 
order. If he succeeds, you will get your August issue through 
the mails unless the Department thinks of some other way 
to stop it. If our attorney doesn't succeed, we will have to 
adopt other ways and means. . . . The Masses is your prop- 
erty. This is your fight as much as it is ours. We are not going 
to quit. We do not believe you are, either. We need money 
to help pay expenses. . . /' 

Yes, the fight must go on. Most of us who were co- 
operatively bringing out the Masses were agreed upon that. 
Some channel of protest must be safeguarded for those who 
had not been stampeded into dumb obeisance to the world's 
war-makers. On the back cover of the September issue was a 
bold pronouncement headed: Challenging the Government, 
which said: 


"Twelve to fifteen hundred radical publications have heen 
declared unmailable. The Masses is the only one which has 
challenged the censorship in the courts and put the Govern- 
ment on the defensive. Each month we have something 
vitally important to say on the war. We are going to say 
it and continue to say it. We are going to fight any attempt 
to prevent us from saying it. The Masses has proved in the 
last few issues that it stands as the foremost critic of mili- 

We had found comfort and confidence in that decision of 
Judge Hand, even though it had been immediately blocked 
by another court. Judge Hand's thoughtful and explicit sanc- 
tion of our course was assurance that there was still some 
sanity left in the judiciary. 

So the September issue of the magazine continued its 
policy of unremitting protest. A lead article by John Reed 
headed One Solid Month of Liberty, said that "in America 
the month just past has been the blackest month for freemen 
our generation has known/* . . . A full-page cartoon of 
mine entitled Having Their Fling, pictured an editor, capi- 
talist, politician, and clergyman dancing to the music of a 
deviFs orchestra playing instruments shaped like cannon, ma- 
chine guns, and hand grenades. Placards above the dancers 
read: "All for Democracy ... All for Honor ... All for 
World Peace. . . All for Jesus." . . . Sweatshop conditions 
of labor among the women employed in the federal Bureau 
of Printing and Engraving in Washington were detailed in 
an editorial. 

There was a double-page cartoon spread by Boardman 
Robinson called Deportations Take Your Choice, in which 
he showed the Kaiser and his army driving Belgians away 
from their homes and a silk-hatted Phelps-Dodge Corpora- 
tion official and its gunmen herding miners into box-cars in 
Arizona. . . . Max Eastman had an article assailing the 
Post Office censorship. . . . Young Lads First was the title 
of a poem by Willard Wattles, telling of gray-beards who 
came from councils and set young men's ears aflame with 
cries of "Honor!" and sent them off to die. 

All of these features were of course red rags to the pro- 
war crowd, as were two other cartoons I drew for the same 
issue. One represented Postmaster General Burleson as 4 


worried knight in armor who had broken his lance in the 
battle with radical publications. Burleson's tattered banner 
bore the legend: "Death to all newspapers and magazines 
that haven't 'the right spirit/ " . . . My other cartoon was 
a simple portrait of Assistant U. S. District Attorney Barnes, 
identified as a defender of relics, with a quotation from his 
argument for exclusion of the Masses from the mails: "The 
Liberty Bell cartoon, sir, to my mind, is objectionable, be- 
cause it shows that time-honored relic in a state of complete 

It would be hard to find a more illuminating commentary 
on the American scene in that period than John Reed's 
article. "With a sort of hideous apathy/' he related, "the 
country has acquiesced in a regime of judicial tyranny, bu- 
reaucratic suppression, and industrial barbarism, which fol- 
lowed inevitably the first fine careless rapture of militarism/' 
... He declared that Emma Goldman and Alexander Berk- 
man were not convicted of the charges on which they were 
ostensibly tried; they were convicted by the Assistant District 
Attorney's constant stress of the term "Anarchist/' and by 
the careful definition of that term, brought out by both judge 
and prosecutor, as one who wishes wantonly to overthrow 
society by violence. . . . Reed told of the attack of soldiers 
and sailors on the Socialist headquarters in Boston; the race 
riot in East St. Louis, in which more than thirty Negroes, 
men and women, were massacred by whites; the loading of 
hundreds of striking copper miners and their attorney, into 
cattle cars in Bisbee, Arizona, and their being abandoned in 
the desert, foodless and waterless, 

"Out in San Francisco/' Reed wrote, "the bomb trials go 
merrily on. In spite of the exposure of Oxman, the utter con- 
tradiction and discrediting of the state's witnesses, Mooney 
is still going to die. . . . And so the most patent frame-up 
ever conceived by a Chamber of Commerce to extirpate union 
labor goes on, and indictments rain upon all who have dared 
to defend the Mooneys. . . . 

"Meanwhile, organized labor lies down and takes it 
nay, in San Francisco, connives at it. Gompers is too busy 
running the war he has not time for anything except to 
appoint upon his committees labor's bitterest enemies. I sup- 
pose that as soon as Tom Mooney and his wife are executed, 


Gompers will invite District Attorney Fickert to serve upon 
the Committee on Labor* 

"The suffrage pickets in front of the White House, set 
upon by mobs of government clerks, then by the police, 
arrested time and time again upon no charge, and finally 
committed to the work-house for sixty days, were, as the 
world knows, hurriedly pardoned by the President as soon 
as it was evident how prominent they and their husbands 
were. But at the same time that he pardoned them for their 
'crime/ he intimated that he was too busy over his 'War for 
Democracy' to give any attention to their petition which 
was a petition for the fundamental rights of citizens/* 

It was inevitable, in the temper of the time, that the 
Masses would be suppressed. In October our second-class mail- 
ing privilege was rescinded, and the grand jury indicted Max 
Eastman, Floyd Dell, Henry J. Glintenkamp, Josephine Bell, 
Merrill Rogers, business manager, and myself.* We were 
charged, under the Espionage Act, with "conspiracy to ob- 
struct the recruiting and enlistment service of the United 
States" by publishing seditious articles, cartoons and poems. 
If convicted, we faced sentences of imprisonment up to 
twenty years each and fines up to $10,000 each* And many 
twenty-year prison terms had already been handed out to 

Stacker had come into the language as a term of frequent 
use. Bundles of Hearst newspapers had been burned in Times 
Square because Hearst was slow in swinging to the Allied 
cause but in a few weeks he had swung, and American flags 
were printed all over his daily sheets. So-called pro-Germans 
were being tarred and feathered by mobs in the West. Frank 
Little of the I.W.W. executive board had been lynched by 
business men in Butte, Montana. And new and appalling tales 
of cruelty to conscientious objectors were coming out of the 
prisons where they were confined. 

The road ahead would be hard. We of the Masses staff 
had no illusions about that. 

It was not surprising, in view of the editorial switch of 
the Metropolitan to the side of the war crowd, that my space 

* Subsequently John Reed also was indicted. 


had in recent months been reduced from two pages to one 
page, and that now it was cut to two-thirds of a page. I 
had felt the magazine's policy steadily narrowing, and it had 


The Masses 

HAVING THEIR FLING. One of the cartoons for which I was indicted 
for alleged conspiracy to obstruct recruiting. 

become more and more difficult to draw cartoons and express 
opinions on the situation in the capital that would get by 
the board of editors. Still I kept on, satirizing the show as 
vigorously as I dared, under heads such as Following the 
Leaders and Let the Thinking People Rule. 


It was not surprising either when I got a letter from the 
editors of the Metropolitan in the fall of 1917 saying: 
"You're not catching the spirit of Washington. We wish you 
would come to New York and talk it over/* I went, but I 
knew what the outcome would be before I entered the office. 
We didn't go into details in our discussion. Whigham and 


THE BOSS: "Now, children, all together, three cheers for the 
Supreme Court!" 

This appeared soon after the Keating Child Labor Act of the 
Wilson administration was declared unconstitutional. 

Carl Hovey, the managing editor, both seemed a bit abrupt 

and it was all over. 

Yet it was a relief to get away from Washington then. 
For the scene in the capital had become both farcical and sad. 
Better to be out of it than to remain with my hands tied and 
brain clamped. The magnificent distances swarmed with busi- 
ness men from near and far patriotically giving their services 
at "a dollar a year" with a cheerful eye on large orders for 


their products; Congressmen giving out pompous interviews 
and making stuffed-shirt speeches; spurred swivel-chair offi- 
cers suddenly growing omnipotent; members of the Intelli- 
gence Service hunting for spies; members of the American 
Protective League raiding the office files of persons suspected 
of subversive tendencies, with the aid of building superin- 
tendents and janitors by night, 

Jeannette Rankin once complained to Secretary of War 
Newton Baker that she was being followed by a secret service 
man, ''Don't pay any attention to him/' said Baker. "Two 
of them have been following me for three months/' 

Rents were exorbitant, food prices soared, and every hotel 
was crowded. One encountered drunken parties in profusion 
moving about the town by night. When I read new pro- 
nouncements by Woodrow Wilson I could hear the voices of 
all the stay-at-home slogan makers: 

"Hundred per cent Americanism/' 

"Over there " 

"Give till it hurts!" 

"Don't be a slacker!" 

"Do your bit!" 

"Down with the Huns!" 

"Kill the Kaiser!" 

"Make the world safe " 

"A war to end war!" 

Chapter 31 

I FELT, as others among my radical associates did, that 
the spirit of protest must be kept alive. And with pur 
trial for seditious "conspiracy" approaching, it was 
essential that we have some dependable medium through 
which we could present our case to the public. 

Accordingly some of us who had been active in promoting 
the Masses decided early in 1918 that we would establish a 
new magazine of similar format, to be called the Liberator. 
Again Max Eastman was editor, with his sister Crystal as 
managing editor and Floyd Dell as associate, while the con- 
tributing editors were: Cornelia Barns, Howard Brubaker, 
Hugo Gellert, Arturo Giovannitti, Charles T. Hallinan, 
Helen Keller, Ellen LaMotte, Robert Minor, John Reed, 
Boardman Robinson, Louis Untermeyer, Charles W. Wood, 
and Art Young. 

"Never was the moment more auspicious to issue a great 
magazine of liberty/* our leading editorial said in the first 
issue in March. "With the Russian people in the lead, the 
world is entering upon the experiment of industrial and real 
democracy* . . . The possibilities of change in this day are 
beyond all imagination* We must unite our hands and voices 
to make the end of this war the beginning of an age of free- 
dom and happiness for mankind undreamed by those whose 
minds comprehend only political and military events. . . . 

"The Liberator . . . will advocate the opening of the 
land to the people, and urge the immediate taking over by the 
people of railroads, mines, telegraph and telephone systems, 
and all public utilities. * . 

"The Liberator will endorse the war aims outlined by 
the Russian people and expounded by President Wilson a 
peace without forcible annexations, without punitive indem- 
nities, with free development and self-determination for all 
peoples. Especially it will support the President in his demand 



for an international union, based upon free seas, free com- 
merce, and general disarmament, as the central principle 
upon which hang all hopes of permanent peace and friend- 
ship among nations/' 

The Masses 

A CASE OF HERESY. Charles M. Schwab, steel magnate, upsets his 
class by an outspoken speech at an alumni dinner in New York. 

That issue included an article by Helen Keller in behalf 
of the LW.W.; one by Bob Minor on the peril of Tom 
Mobneyv with a cartoon by Bob showing "the rope still 
around Mooneyes neck"; while Jack Reed dealt with Red 


Russia* I contributed two cartoons, one being entitled "A Case 
of Heresy/' in which Charles M. Schwab was being haled 
into court before old Judge Capitalism for an utterance he 
made at a banquet: 

"Some people call it Socialism. Others call it Bolshevism, 
It means but one thing, and that is that the man who labors 
with his hands, yet does not possess property, is the one who 
is going to dominate the affairs of the world." 

Through the following months the Liberator contained a 
good deal about what was happening abroad, and illuminat- 
ing news material and comment about the class struggle in 
the United States. Some pieces worth noting here were: an 
article on an atrocity by a masked mob in Tulsa, Oklahoma, 
which whipped, tarred and feathered, and deported seven- 
teen men, some of them I.W.W. oil-workers who had been 
taken from the custody of the city police; a report on the 
growing propaganda for compulsory military training; and 
an article by William D. Haywood, general secretary of the 
LW.W., telling of the daily life of himself and 105 other 
class-war prisoners in the foul air of the county jail in 

Cartoons which I made for the new magazine that year 
included one in which a capitalist bows his head in prayer, 
saying: "O Lord, control my appetite if you must, but don't 
take my pie (private ownership) away!"; another called 
"Good Night!" in which private ownership of public institu- 
tions ("the light that failed") is being buried, amid the 
weeping of the church, press, colleges, and stage; and a third 
in which Karl Marx views his triumph in current headlines. 
Such cartoons I classify now as wishful thinking. 

Then I made a portrait of a well-fed, self-satisfied look- 
ing man, to illustrate this supposed news dispatch: 

"RIDGEVILLE, N. HL George Turnip, a leading citi- 
zen of this town, was given a birthday dinner today in honor 
of his sixty-third birthday. Mr. Turnip, who is a bachelor, 
made a strong speech in favor of military training for every 
male citizen over nineteen and under sixty-three years of 

Looking over a bound volume of the Liberator for 1918, 
it is easy to discern that the soft pedal was being used, in 
contrast to the outspokenness of the Masses. But the terror 


against all objectors to the war was in full force, and with 
our trial coming on, we were not inclined to aggravate the 
situation further though we were ready to stand by the 
written and pictorial expressions which had led to the seven 

On the eve of our trial an editorial in the Liberator for 
May, in discussing it, drew a comparison between our position 
and that of the Metropolitan. While the latter had been aiding 
the war, it had lately published an article by William Hard 
declaring that America was not honest in her profession of 
anti-imperial war-aims, that she was in fact imperialistic. 
Thereupon some "automaton" in the Post Office Department 
had issued a mandate to the New York postmaster to exclude 
Whigham's periodical from the mails* But this action was 
quickly over-ridden by higher-ups, who explained that it was 
all a mistake. 

Thus, the Liberator commented, "the respectable felonies, 
that enliven the pages of the Metropolitan, and the Kansas 
City Star, and Collier's, and the newspapers of William R. 
Hearst, may continue with impunity, as they should of course 
in a society whose ultimate and really admired ideal is respect- 

Our new magazine was being consistently more diplo- 
matic than militant in its utterances, and that issue contained 
a carefully poised article by Max Eastman headed "Wilson 
and the World's Future," in which various wrongs in con- 
nection with the war were pointed out, in the manifest hope 
that the man in the White House might deal with them con- 

"President Wilson conducts his own thinking," this ar- 
ticle began, "with a large freedom and interior democracy 
that is not usual either among professors or politicians. He 
gives a voice to every new fact and every new suggestion 
that the current of events and meditation throws out." 

Then certain recent actions of the Chief Executive "in the 
single interest of human freedom" were listed. 

"A thing that makes me especially willing to travel [in 
the same car with him]," Eastman stated, "is that President 
Wilson has at last turned his attention to those violations of 
liberty and constitutional right in our domestic affairs which 
have been making his great words before the world sound 


so hollow/' This referred to an order for a review of courts- 
martial and sentences dealt out to several hundred conscien- 
tious objectors, with a view to remedy by the President "if 
any be needed/' 

Moves that Wilson might make to ease the tensity of 
the whole situation, suggested by the Liberator's editor, in- 
cluded recognition of the Republic of Labor Unions in 
Russia, indorsement of the proposed Inter-Belligerent Con- 
ference of Socialist and Labor Delegates, and some public 
statement to curb "the American Prussians ' and to halt the 
general suppression of publications and the persecution of 
organizers and agitators with radical opinions. 

Patriotic music was being played lustily by an army 
band in City Hall Park as we of the Masses went to trial 
in the old Post Office building before Judge Augustus Hand 
in April. Only five defendants were present Max Eastman, 
Floyd Dell, Merrill Rogers, Josephine Bell, and myself. John 
Reed was in Russia, and Henry Glintenkamp's whereabouts 
were unknown. He had been out of town when the indictment 
was returned by the grand jury. 

Assistant District Attorney Earl Barnes was handling the 
prosecution, while Morris Hillquit and Dudley Field Malone 
were our attorneys. Hillquit had been under fire by the super- 
patriots because he had admittedly written most of the St. 
Louis and- war proclamation of the Socialist party; some of 
the newspapers referred to him as "the unindicted Hillquit/' 
Malone was a liberal who liked to exercise his independent 
spirit right in the open, but for all that was still regarded as 
respectable. He was in the case mainly because of the free 
press issue. 

Among the exhibits introduced by the prosecution as evi- 
dence against us, these six stood out: 

1. Eastman's editorial, "A Question/' which praised the 
moral courage of those who were conscientious objectors to 
the draft. 

2. Letters from conscientious objectors in English pris- 
ons, with a foreword by Floyd Dell lauding them. 

3. Glintenkamp's cartoon in which Death was measuring 
a drafted soldier for a coffin, with an excerpt from a news 


dispatch stating that a huge number of coffins had been 
ordered by the War Department. 

4. An "article" signed by Reed, which actually was a 
compilation of quotations from a report by the National 
Mental Hygiene Committee, which cited the great frequency 
of mental diseases among soldiers in the prevailing war. This 
report had been published by the New York Tribune, but no 
editor of that newspaper had been indicted. The only part of 

MORRIS HILLQUIT, one of the defense 
counsel in the Masses sedition case. 

the "article* 'which was original with Reed was the headline, 
"Knit a Strait- Jacket for Your Soldier Boy/' 

5. Josephine Bell's free-verse poem, "A Tribute/' and 
dedicated to Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman, who 
had lately been convicted under the Espionage Act. 

6. My anti-war cartoon, "Having Their Fling." This 
was just one of various pictures of mine cited by the State. 

Picking the jury was an arduous task, which often im- 
pelled grave doubts of our chances as we contemplated the 
"peers" who were to decide whether we should spend the next 


twenty years in or out of prison. Scores of middle class tales- 
men, many of them elderly and "retired," were examined as 
to their social views, with practically the same answers from 

"Are you prejudiced against pacifism and pacifists?" Al- 
ways the reply would be "Yes/' 

There was no hope of getting twelve men, or even three, 
on that jury who were open-minded* The best that our 
attorneys could get from the talesmen whom we thought 
looked "human" was an expression of belief that their preju- 
dices "might be overcome by proof and argument." It was 
chilling to remember that in the Chicago Haymarket case 
most of the jurors who sent four men to the gallows had 
voiced the same belief. Hillquit requested Judge Hand to 
excuse talesmen who had that attitude, but the judge said: 
"You cannot get a jury anywhere in the United States not 
prejudiced against pacifism." 

My love for music suffered during that triaL While the 
jury-picking was going on, and through the whole eight days 
that our fate was in abeyance, the bands in the park below, 
where Liberty Bonds were being sold, played national airs. 
To me, who considered myself quite as patriotic in a real 
sense as those who had to prove it by emotional excess, this 
music sounded sad, not to say ominous, like the relentless 
beat of a funeral march. 

Once when brass horns blared out "The Star Spangled 
Banner" right under the court- room windows some one in 
the room stood up, then others, till everybody present was 
standing at attention. It was like some solemn religious cere- 
mony with God looking on from behind a cloud. We de- 
fendants stood up with the others, knowing that if we didn't 
we would be mobbed* This patriotic gesture seemed to be- 
wilder Judge Hand* He arose slowly as if saying to himself: 
"What started all this?" For there was no custom in court- 
room behavior of standing up for anything or anybody ex- 
cept the judge himself* 

We were more fortunate than the Haymarket men, how- 
ever, in having a conscientious judge on the bench* Judge 
Hand had not been stampeded by the war mania, and he con- 
sistently tried to be fair in his rulings and in his instructions 
to the jury. 


I was amazed anew at the vastness of evil intent which a 
prosecutor could find in the utterances of defendants repre- 
senting an unpopular cause. Earl Barnes took great pains to 
point out to the jury that we were traitors to the principles 
which guided the Founding Fathers of this nation, that we 
had entered into a deliberate conspiracy to undermine the 
pillars of the republic, that we had set out to defeat the 
purposes of the army and navy which were protecting our 
country against the mad aims of the Kaiser. He read from 
the exhibits in awe-inspiring tones, and held up the offend- 
ing cartoons with a gesture of horror as if he were displaying 
the pistol with which Booth shot Abraham Lincoln. 

Hillquit, in his opening address, contended that "true 
patriotism, the concern for one's country and its people, is at 
least as consistent with a desire to protect them from mass 
slaughter as with honest war enthusiasm/' and he concluded: 

"These then were our honest views. Were we wrong? 
Were we right about it? Gentlemen, you are not called upon 
to pass on this question. History will be our jury. No human 
being today can assume to render final judgment on the great 
problems which the world catastrophe has put before us. You 
are called upon to pass on only one thing: Are these men 
criminals? Did they conspire to injure their country? Did they 
conspire with the Imperial German Government in this war?" 

At the end of the state's case Hillquit asked the court to 
quash the indictment against Josephine Bell, arguing that no 
part of her poem was illegal. Some idea of its character may 
be gained from this portion: 

Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman 

Are in prison tonight 

But they have made themselves elemental forces 
Like the water that climbs down the rocks; 
Like the wind in the leaves; 
Like the gentle night that holds us; 
They are working on our destinies; 
They are forging the loves of the nations. 

Judge Hand read the poem thoughtfully, and handing it 
back to Hillquit said: "Do you call that a poem?" Hillquit 
answered: "Your Honor, it is so called in the indictment/* 
Whereupon the judge said: "Indictment dismissed/' 


Each of the remaining four defendants was put on the 
witness stand. Max Eastman and Floyd Dell discussed at 
length, in response to our attorney's questions, the funda- 
mental rights of the press and of American citizens as in- 
dividuals to express themselves freely on issues which con- 
cerned their own welfare or that of their countrymen. Merrill 
Rogers explained the business end of the Masses, which largely 
consisted in finding money each month to meet the deficit. 

All three of course denied that there had ever been any 
conspiracy by those who devised or edited the contents of the 
magazine, and Eastman and Dell tried to make clear that it 
had never been possible to get all the "co-operating" editors 
and contributors together at any one time. (Actually more of 
us had attended the studio meetings after the indictment than 
ever before; postcards would arrive from the Masses office 
saying: "Come over to B's studio Thursday night con- 

I was called upon to identify my own cartoons and to 
explain them. In drawing "Having Their Fling/' I stated, I 
tried to show a mad orgy of men representing our country's 
principal institutions: press, pulpit, politics, and business. I 
tried to picture them as war- crazy. 

"But/' said the prosecutor, as if he thought I was holding 
something back, "when you put that orchestra playing on 
war-implements in the background of your cartoon and the 
Devil leading the orchestra, what did you mean by that?" 

Nobody but a war-time prosecutor would have asked 
such a question, but it had to be answered, and I said: "Well, 
since General Sherman described war as Hell, it seemed to me 
appropriate that the Devil should lead the band/' 

Another of my cartoons which had excited the prosecu- 
tor's patriotic ire was captioned Iceland Declares War on 
Africa, and a third depicted Congress as a humble individual 
asking a war board of financiers: "Where do I come in?" 
and the board answering: "Run along. We got through with 
you when you declared war for us/' 

In cross-examining me, Barnes insisted on knowing what 
my motives were in drawing these cartoons. "For the public 
good/* I said. On re-direct examination our attorneys sought 
to bring out just what public good I had intended. I wasn't 
prepared for that question my thoughts had not gone that 


far. There was a long silence, with reporters' pencils poised 
waiting, and the jurors leaning forward to catch my answer. 
I felt warm and uncomfortable. 

"I intended why the good of the public/' I stam- 

But evidently that wasn't sufficient. Our attorneys re- 
phrased the question, only to find me still at sea. Then Judge 
Hand came to my aid. He gave some abstract definitions of 
public good which were Greek to me and asked if I had 
intended some such public good as he had mentioned. 

"That's it exactly/' I said, and the matter was dropped. 
I had reached a stage of weariness with the whole trial where 
I was in a mood to say, "Go ahead and hang me if you must, 
but stop pushing." 

That weariness culminated one day in my falling asleep 
in court. Hillquit shook me, with a warning whisper: "Wake 
up, Art, you'll be arrested for contempt!" Even if that had 
been my bad luck and twenty years in prison my future, I 
don't think I could have stayed awake throughout that hot, 
listless afternoon while trivial technicalities were being 
messed over. When I was fully awake, I made a sketch of 
myself as I must have looked during that peaceful nap. 

George Creel, director of American publicity forces for 
the war, was one of several individuals who testified that the 
accused were of good character. Considering the vilification 
turned against anyone on trial for anti-war activities, such 
testimony was thankfully received, especially coming from 
the chief bugle-blower for war propaganda and the new 
militarism. Creel had shown some radical tendencies in other 
years, and had written an article for the Masses called "Rocke- 
feller Law/' exposing the action of the Rockefeller interests 
in the Colorado mines. 

Various notables attended the trial, sitting inside the 
rail as guests of our attorneys or because they were known 
to the court. I remember seeing Dean George W. Kirchwey, 
Edna St. Vincent Millay, Richard LeGallienne, Amos Pin- 
chot, Edna Kenton, Darwin Meserole, and Savel Zimand. 
While many in the audience were no doubt strongly against 
us, I often recognized friends and acquaintances lawyers, 
teachers, artists, poets, and Socialists, also I.W.W. members 
who wisely wore no identifying buttons just then. 


Our actions were not those of conspirators, but of 
"straightforward men/* Hillquit and Malone argued. When 
Max Eastman sent a telegraphic reply to a youngster in New 
Orleans who was troubled as to what attitude he should take 
toward the question of fighting in the war, Max wired him 
what he would do if he were in the inquirer's place; "con- 
spirators were not given to using open language in telegrams/* 
our counsel declared. 

"There's Art Young/' said Malone in developing his 
defense* "Everybody likes Art Young. Look at him* There 
he sits like a big friendly Newfoundland dog. How could 
anyone conceive of him playing the role of a conspirator?" 

And for the moment I felt sorry for myself it was a 
shame, that's what it was, and I hoped that the jury would 
be duly impressed. 

In view of the somber atmosphere of the court when 
Prosecutor Barnes excoriated us anew in his closing address, 
we expected a quick verdict and were prepared for an un- 
favorable one. The best I looked for was several years in 
prison. Not a pleasant outlook, but I consoled myself with 
the thought that maybe I would be allowed to draw pictures 
there. We had told the truth out of turn, and now what? 
Kate Richards O'Hare had been sentenced to five years for 
an anti-war speech, and Rose Pastor Stokes had lately been 
convicted, also for a speech, made in South Dakota, in which 
she said that "The government cannot serve both the 
profiteers and the employees of profiteers/' 

But many hours went by with no verdict, a night, and 
another day, and still another night. And as the time length- 
ened we grew more and more hopeful Somebody was hold- 
ing out against the war madness. After 48 hours the jurors 
came in, weary, some of them with bloodshot eyes, and 
reported that they could not agree. 

Ten of the twelve were for conviction; the other two 
insisted that there was no evidence that we had taken part in 
any conspiracy. One of the two, H. C. Fredericks, told the 
others that he would hold out for us "till Hell freezes over/' 
In 1923 I happened to meet Mr. Fredericks, and he told me 
that, after many years of regular service on juries, he was 
never again called to serve. Newspaper accounts of our trial 
related that some of the jurors had complained to federal 


officials that two "recalcitrant jurors who displayed Socialist 
and pacifist tendencies" had blocked their efforts to send us 
to prison. A "federal inquiry" was forecast by the reporters. 

While our trial was in progress I had received word from 
Clarina Michelson, recording secretary of the Socialist party 
branch in my district, that I had been nominated for the 
State Senate. To which I had responded, saying: "I am happy 
to accept, but don't know whether I'll be a resident of New 
York or Atlanta when election day rolls around/' 

Thanks to those two jurors who had persisted in doing 
their own thinking, I was permitted to take part in the 
campaign that fall as a free man. I made a good many 
speeches, speaking wherever I was asked to go, but learned 
afterward that I had never spoken in my own district once. 
Presumably the arrangements committee didn't think that 
necessary, and I was told that my comrades in the 13th S.D. 
gave me "the regular party vote/' That, however, was not 
enough to send me to Albany. 

Chapter 32 

MY world had grown small and shaky. I learned what 
ostracism means. Men and women whom I had 
counted as friends found it convenient to pass me on 
the street without speaking, or were brief and impersonal in 
their conversation. And often I felt that I was being pointed 
out as a treasonable being to be shunned as one would the 
plague. At the Dutch Treat Club, of which I was one of the 
founders, the atmosphere exuded by some of the members 
was so cold whenever I hove in sight that I handed in my 
resignation. Jack Reed also quit; he had been popular and 
active there, and once he wrote the libretto for a comic opera 
for one of the club's annual frolics. 

Editors of most of the magazines where I had long had 
entree also shied at my offerings. Sometimes they attempted 
to explain, but there was no need it was obvious that they 
could not afford to continue using the work of one who was 
being prosecuted by the government on sedition charges. Thus 
I had difficulty in making a living. But there was one editor 
who stood by me Jacob Marinoff, of the Big Stick, a Jewish 
humorous weekly, which also was under surveillance by the 
federal authorities. Each week he used my drawings, with 
lettering such as is frequently necessary in a cartoon in 
Hebrew. I liked this because it gave the pictures a decorative 
effect that my plain English lettering lacked. And unfailingly 
each week Marinoff sent me a check, and thus I was able to 
eat and pay rent. 

Early that summer Jack Reed came back from Russia, 
bursting with elation over the social and economic wonders 
which were being worked out by the Workers' and Peasants' 
Government. He brought with him a mass of notes which 
subsequently grew into his book, Ten Days That Shook 
the World. In the Liberator for June he said: "Two months 
ago, at No. 6 Dvortsovya Ploshod, I saw the new world 



born/' As soon as Jack returned, he notified the District 
Attorney's office that he would be ready for trial with the 
other Masses defendants whenever called. 

Soon after this, he and I went to Chicago to cover the 
trial of the LW.W. leaders before Judge Kenesaw Mountain 
Landis. They, too, stood accused of interfering with enlist- 
ment. Bill Hay wood and 100 other "Wobblies" * were the 
defendants speakers, organizers, editors, corralled by a drag- 
net covering many states. One of the offenses of this organ- 
ization, the Industrial Workers of the World, was that it had 
persisted in striking for decent wages and better working 
conditions even in war-time while the American Federation 
of Labor, headed by Samuel Gompers, had in effect called a 
truce in its conflicts with employers and had tamely gone 
with the wind of war propaganda. 

Out in the Pacific Northwest the war profiteers had 
fought fiercely against an LW.W. strike in the lumber woods 
for an eight-hour day, shower-baths, and clean bedding in- 
stead of unwashed and lousy blankets. The timber-cutters 
were working eleven or twelve hours a day. Their strike 
interfered with spruce production. Spruce was needed for 
aeroplanes, and the West Coast Lumbermen's Association was 
grieved because the strike cut into profits; spruce was now 
bringing $90 to $120 a thousand feet in contrast to a price 
of only $30 a thousand a short time before. 

Hot days in this Chicago court; bands below playing 
national anthems, but nobody rising to their feet here as they 
had in New York; many of those in attendance with their 
coats off, and the judge even shedding his necktie. Frank 
Nebeker, chief prosecutor; he had been counsel for big cop- 
per corporations. The defense was being handled by George 
F. Vanderveer, fearless labor attorney from Seattle; Fred H. 
Moore of Los Angeles, who had defended Emma Goldman 
in the free speech fight in San Diego; William F. Cleary, who 
had been deported into the desert with the striking Bisbee 
copper miners; Caroline Lowe of Kansas; and Otto Christen- 
sen of Chicago. 

Jack Reed's description of Judge Landis lingers in mem- 
ory: "Small on the huge bench sits a wasted man with untidy 

* The term "Wobbly'*, said to have been fastened on the I. W. W. members 
in derision by a Los Angeles editor, had been adopted by them with enthusiasm. 


white hair, an emaciated face in which two burning eyes are 
set like jewels, parchment skin split by a crack for a mouth; 
the face of Andrew Jackson three years dead. . * . Upon 
this man has devolved the historic role of trying the Social 
Revolution. He is doing it like a gentleman. Not that he 
admits the existence of a Social Revolution. The other day 
he ruled out of evidence the report of the Committee on 
Industrial Relations, which the defense was trying to intro- 
duce in order to show the background of the I.W.W/' 

Every one of those defendants could have been a subject 
for some vivid drama of struggle; they were veterans of 
industrial battles in half a hundred cities their names and 
their testimony evoked pictures of war with exploiting em- 
ployers in Lawrence, Paterson, Chicago, Spokane, Butte, 
Seattle, Aberdeen, San Francisco, San Pedro, Everett. From 
the witness stand one heard echoes of the Ettor-Giovannitti 
trial in Salem; the lynching of Frank Little in Butte; the 
Spokane free speech fight; the massacre of I.W.W. members 
by armed business men and deputy sheriffs on the docks in 
Everett, Washington; the Mooney-Billings case in San Fran- 

Plenty of publicity of the wrong kind was being 
given to the case by the Chicago newspapers. Whatever the 
testimony, almost always the inference was that these de- 
fendants were guilty of treason. But the reality of the trial 
was being shown to New York Call readers in daily wire 
dispatches by David Karsner. 

Through many days the case against the I.W.W. was 
built up, mostly with accusations that these men had no 
respect for property. There was testimony alleging sabotage, 
copper-nails driven into fruit trees, emery dust thrown into 
the cogs of machinery, haystacks set on fire and the prose- 
cution had asked the talesmen at the start: "You believe, do 
you not, that all children should be taught respect for other 
people's property ?" Various employers testified, and Secret 
Service men, private detectives, sheriffs and deputies, gun- 
men, stool-pigeons. 

"The wage system/' said Mr. Clyne, one of the prose- 
cutors, once, "is established by law, and all opposition to it is 
opposition to law/' And again Nebeker asserted: "A man 
has no right to revolution under the law/' Whereupon Judge 


Landis, who occasionally surprised both sides by his blunt- 
ness, commented: "Well, that depends on how many men he 
can get to go in with him in other words, whether he can 
put it over/' 

Jack Reed saw the defendants thus: "Inside the rail of 
the courtroom, crowded together, many in their shirt-sleeves, 
some reading papers, one or two stretched out asleep, some 
sitting, some standing up; the faces of workers and fighters, 
for the most part, also the faces of orators, of poets, the sensi- 
tive and passionate faces of foreigners but all strong faces, 
all faces of men inspired somehow; many scarred, few bit- 

Bill Hay wood, head of the I.W.W., was on the witness 
stand four days; and no juror ever dozed in that time; for 
always the story he told, in answer to questions by Vander- 
veer, was moving and vital. Through those questions Big 
Bill, with his large one-eyed head, bulky body, and small 
hands which seldom gestured, sat there and traced his own 
life struggle as a boy in the mines, as an organizer for the 
Western Federation of Miners in territory where that meant 
risking death from gun-men's bullets, as a defendant in the 
famous trial in Boise, when he was one of three accused of 
conspiracy to kill, and of killing, ex-Governor Steunenberg 
of Idaho with dynamite; of his helping to organize the 
Socialist Party, and later the Industrial Workers of the 
World ; and of his part in many of the LW. W. strikes and 
free speech conflicts across the land. 

John T. Doran, known as "Red" because of his autumnal 
hued hair, and adorned with a green eye-shade, stood up in 
court with a chart before him and combined six soap-box 
speeches into one which lasted five hours. That speech was a 
liberal education in the details of the class struggle, what the 
workers were up against, how they were invariably robbed 
at the point of production. Every juror stayed wide awake 
during his testimony also. When Red Dorah finished, he said: 
"It is customary with LW.W. speakers to take up a collec- 
tion; but under these circumstances, we will dispense with it 

Ralph Chaplin, bronzed young descendant of New Eng- 
land pioneers of 1638, veteran of the West Virginia coal 
strike of 1913, when machine-guns mowed down strikers and 


their families, and editor of the LW.W. weekly Solidarity 
in Chicago, faced the jury and took full responsibility for an 
editorial unequivocally opposing the entrance of the United 


States into the war. He could have shifted or divided that 
responsibility, but he chose the harder way. 

Among the 101 defendants I was much interested in 
Meyer Friedkin, a New York boy of wealthy Jewish parents. 
The color of health was in his cheeks and he had bummed 
the rails and taken his chances with the migratory workers in 


many of the hot spots across the country. And there was 
Herbert Mahler, organizer of the defense committee which 
had successfully acquitted 74 I.W.W. members of murder 
charges following the wanton killing of five Wobblies by a 
business man's mob during a free speech fight in Everett, 
Washington. No one was tried for those five deaths, but the 
74 workers were held for the slaying of two sheriff's deputies. 
The defense showed conclusively that the deputies were 
killed by the cross fire of their own crowd. 

Stories that were like moving panoramas of the class 
struggle, each seen from a different angle, were related from 
the stand by a long line of defendants including Jim Rowan, 
who had been forced to run the gauntlet of a vigilante line- 
up and beaten into insensibility near Everett shortly before 
the massacre there; Vincent St. John, another of the I.W.W. 
founders, former head of the organization, and once in the 
thick of the troubles centering about the Western Federation 
of Miners; Romola Bobba, editor of the I.W.W. Italian 
paper, II Proletariat, who told of conditions among textile 
workers; Jim Thompson, one of the best of the I.W.W. 
speakers; Bill Moran, Australian sailor who had recruited 
new members for the "One Big Union** on all the seas; and 
J. A. MacDonald, organizer of migratory workers in the 
harvest fields. 

Defense witnesses testified that the I.W.W. had long 
since withdrawn the pamphlets it once circulated advocating 
sabotage. It was charged that members had destroyed fruit 
trees in California, but there was testimony that the organ- 
ization had widely distributed stickers bearing the words: 

"Don't drive copper nails into fruit trees. It harms them." 

It was Jim Rowan who was asked a pointed question by 
Judge Landis. The judge stretched his thin body down from 
his throne and squinted into Jim's black eyes. 

"Mr. Rowan, what is sabotage?" 

"Well," said Rowan, 'Td say it's givin' bum work for 
bum pay/' 

That jury deliberated only fifty-five minutes, although 
the evidence against the 101 defendants varied greatly. It 
found them all guilty, on five counts. But Judge Landis had 
his own ideas about their relative guilt. He sentenced Hay- 
wood, St. John, Chaplin, and some seven others to serve 


twenty years in Leavenworth; another group got ten years 
each; a third group drew five years; and a fourth was given 
terms ranging from one to four years. Landis dealt out these 
varying sentences on the ground, implied if not specified, that 
the lesser lights among the defendants had been misled. 

One week-end during that trial I went up to Monroe to 
see my folks. They made me feel at home as always, doing 
everything possible to insure my comfort. But I noticed that 
greetings from some of my old acquaintances around town 
lacked the warmth of the past. They talked with me nerv- 
ously and seemed to be in a hurry, as if they might be open 
to criticism if they were seen tarrying with one who had been 
accused of disloyalty to his country. 

My father was perceptibly older than when I had seen 
him last. And he had changed in other ways. He voiced no 
specific comment upon my opposition to the United States 
entering the European war, nor upon my being tried for 
alleged sedition. But I knew without his mentioning it that 
he could not comprehend my reasoning. He uttered one 
sentence which recalled in contrast his liking for independent 
thinking when I was a boy, and when he would say: "You've 
got to think things out for yourself/' 

I had got to talking about some of the atrocities by Amer- 
ican super-patriots against unoffending Germans houses 
painted yellow, beatings, tarring-and-feathering, and even 
murder. From my experiences in Washington I cited instances 
of fake news stories, widely circulated prior to April, 1917, 
to arouse bitterness against a whole nation and drive this 
country into the butchery overseas. And I said: "I am proud 
of the German blood in my mother's veins." 

Quietly my father answered: "If I were a young man I'd 
go to this war/' 

I said nothing more on that subject, nor did he. I could 
not debate it with him. Our emotions, I felt sure, were too 
close to the surface. 

His arm lingered about my shoulders as he wished me 
good luck when I left. He was almost eighty then, still 
vigorous, and attending to business in the store daily. "But," 
he said, "one of these days the wheels will stop running/* 


He died that fall. My mother, then seventy-seven, survived 
him by four years* 

July fourth brought a welcome holiday amid those hot 
sessions in Judge Landis's courtroom, and Jack Reed and I 
celebrated by going down to see Eugene Debs in Terre Haute, 
Indiana* Out on bail on a sedition charge, he was resting at 
home while awaiting triaL His wife greeted us at the door, 
and said he was in bed; he had "not been well not for a 
whole year/* But he immediately got up, and the old fire that 
I knew came back into the eyes in that worn face as he shook 
hands with both of us at once. 

Jack reported this event in an article for which I made 
pictures in the Liberator of September, 1918. A few excerpts 
from what Reed wrote are pertinent here. 

"The sound of the parade came drifting down. Looking 
through the darkened windows we watched the people. As 
they passed the house they motioned or pointed toward it, 
with expression compounded half of eager malice, and half of 
a sort of fear. 'That's where Gene Debs lives/ you could see 
them saying, as one would say, 'The House of the Traitor/ 

" 'Come on/ said Gene, suddenly. 'Let's go out and sit 
on the front porch and give 'em a good show, if they want to 
see me/ 

"So we went out on the porch and took off our coats. 
And those who passed only looked furtively our way, and 
whispered, and when they caught Gene's eye, bowed bver- 
cordially. . . , 

"Before the war Gene added luster to the name of the 
town, as well as having an immense personal popularity. In 
the beginning, practically the whole population, all through 
that section, was against going to war. . . . But since the 
war the usual phenomenon has happened in Terre Haute. 
The whole place has been mobilized physically and spirit- 
ually. Except Gene Debs. The simpler people couldn't un- 
derstand it. The bankers, lawyers, and merchants felt for him 
a terrible rancour. Even the ministers of the gospel, who had 
often implored him to address their conventions, now held 
meetings denouncing 'the enemy in our midst/ " 

But Debs was holding solidly to his principles. Jack asked 
him if he wasn't afraid of lynching. No, that hadn't come 


into his mind* "I guess I'm psychically protected, anyway/' 
he said. "I know that so long as I keep my eye on them, they 
won't dare to do anything. As a rule they* re cowardly curs 

THE SOWER. Cartoon made for the Socialist Party. 

I drew Gene's profile as he sat there in the sun near a 
porch-box of petunias, and made a sketch of his lean, expres- 
sive hands as they punctuated his contempt for the war- 
makers and his hope for the future: "Socialism's on the way. 


They can't stop it, no matter what they do. The more breaks 
the other side makes, the better for us. . . /* 

Debs was tried in Cleveland a few weeks later, with 
Seymour Stedman of Chicago as his attorney, but he con- 
ducted his own defense. He made no attack upon the prosecu- 
tion's case, so far as the evidence was concerned, but he went 
ahead to tell the jury about the struggle of men for freedom. 

"Chattel slavery has disappeared," he said. "But we are 
not yet free. We are engaged in another mighty agitation 
today. It is as wide as the world. It is the rise of the toiling 
and producing masses, who are gradually becoming conscious 
of their interest, their powers, as a class, who are organizing 
industrially and economically, who are slowly but surely 
developing the economic and political power that is to set 
them free. They are still in the minority, but they have 
learned how to wait and to bide their time. It is because I 
happen to be in this minority that I stand in your presence 
today, charged with crime/' 

Not one word of his speech in Canton did he take back or 
try to soften. Instead he re-asserted the right of any minority, 
or any individual, to speak out against war or any other act 
of a nation which that minority or individual believed wrong. 

The indictment charged Debs with utterances calculated 
to incite mutiny in the army, stirring up disloyalty to the 
government, obstructing the enlistment of soldiers, encourag- 
ing resistance to the United States of America, and promoting 
the cause of the enemy. Then sixty-three years old, Debs was 
found guilty and sent to Atlanta penitentiary to serve ten 

In August I met Jack Reed on the street in New York, 
and he said: "I've just been up to Croton having a long talk 
with Max. I'm resigning from the Liberator/' 

He told me why, and in the September issue Jack's letter 
explaining this action was published. "The reason/' he wrote, 
"is that I cannot in these times bring myself to share editorial 
responsibility for a magazine which exists upon the sufferance 
of Mr. Burleson/' Then he stated that he didn't want to cease 
as a contributor, and ended by saying: "And in the happy 

* There he contracted the heart illness which shortened his life. President 
Harding commuted his sentence in 1921, but five years later he died. 


lay when we can again call a spade a spade without tying 
bunting on it, you will find me as you have in the past, yours 
for the profound social change/' 

Max Eastman's reply also appeared in that issue: 

4 'I haven* t a word of protest only a deep feeling of 

"In your absence we all weighed the matter and decided 
it was our duty to the social revolution to keep this instru- 
ment we have created alive toward a time of great usefulness. 
You will help us with your writing and reporting, and that 
is all we ask. 

'Personally I envy you the power to cast loose when not 
only a good deal of the dramatic beauty, but also the glamour 
of abstract moral principle, is gone out of the venture, and it 
remains for us merely the most effective and therefore the 
right thing to do/' 

Recalling these letters, in the Modern Monthly for Octo- 
ber, 1936, Max makes Reed's attitude clear: 

"Jack thought that my editorials, under this policy of 
getting by with [Postmaster-General] Burleson I had 
actually gone to see him in Washington, in company with 
E. W. Scripps, and deployed 4 my most bourgeois charms 
against him were getting a little yellow. (I think so too as - 
I read them now.) But Jack also recognized the value of a 
legal organ/ and testified to it by promising to contribute 
in the future/' 

And of course the Liberator, as a legal organ, had already 
shown its value, particularly in enabling us to publish a 
detailed report of our trial a few months earlier, and showing 
what the sponsors of a magazine attempting to tell the truth 
were up against in war-time. 

Now we of the Masses were ordered to trial again. Reed, 
who had been in Russia when we others faced the first jury, 
was eager for whatever might come. All this would help 
greatly to educate the public, he averreti; soon there would 
be more good people in prison than outside. Glintenkamp 
had not reappeared, but we heard new and unverifiable 
rumors of his whereabouts he was painting in Tahiti; 
fomenting a revolution in Chile; doing wood-cuts in Cuba; 
and running a duck farm near Albia, Iowa. 


The second trial came in September, with Judge Martin 
Manton presiding. Again Barnes was prosecutor, but this 
time we were defended by Seymour Stedman of Chicago, 
Charles Recht, and Walter Nelles. Before a jury chosen from 
another large list of middle-class talesmen, the same evidence 
was set forth, and with much the same kind of argument on 
both sides. 

Prosecutor Barnes, however, added some colorful touches. 
Citing the name of a lawyer who had been in the army and 
was killed in battle, he said, pointing reprovingly at each 
defendant in turn: "He not only died for his country, but he 
died for Max Eastman, he died for Floyd Dell, he died for 
John Reed, he died for Merrill Rogers/' I was waiting for 
him to mention me, but he didn't, and I leaned over and 
asked Reed: "Who was this hero who didn't die for me?" 
Just then a recess was called, and on the way out Reed said: 
"Cheer up, Art, Jesus died for you/' 

While Barnes was cross-examining me, he said at one 

"Now, Mr. Young, you have told us a good deal about 
your beliefs in revolution and that you believe that the Amer- 
ican Revolution was justified, but, Mr. Yoang, do you be- 
lieve in the theory of the class struggle?" 

And I answered something like this: 

"If you've got the measles, Mr. Barnes, it doesn't neces- 
sarily mean that you believe in them." 

Again the jury disagreed, and one juror shed some light 
on the character of the deliberations when he said to us: "It 
was a good thing for you boys that you were all American 
born; otherwise it might have gone pretty hard with you/' 

Chapter 33 

"-V "TOW is the time for us to start a magazine," said Ellis 

f^U O. Jones early in 1919. Ellis had been an associate 

editor of Life. The war was over, and the Post Office 

Department more tolerant. Survivors of the late horror were 

reaching out to recover their lost sanity, and authors long 

silent were writing books with the truth in them. 

We agreed that people ought to laugh again (or at least 
try to laugh) , and we could help them to find reasons for 
fresh hope. Other writers and cartoonists liked the idea. One 
factor which stirred me toward this new move was my feel- 
ing of dissatisfaction with the Liberator, which was featur- 
ing my work but not paying for it. 

I had considered it a privilege to draw for the Liberator. 
But a few of us on the staff who had always been ready to 
contribute for nothing began to feel that it wasn't quite right 
that engravers, printers, paper dealers, and desk- editors should 
have their pay or the magazine would not go on, while those 
who did the creative work had to forego compensation. That 
was and still is a condition accepted by those who contribute 
to radical magazines which are not self-sustaining. Yet one's 
individual economic responsibilities sometimes call for a more 
fruitful arrangement* 

Boardman Robinson and I attended an editorial meeting 
one evening, the purpose of which was to figure out some 
way to pay us something for our cartoons. I remember saying 
at the time that I wanted to know if I was an asset to the 
Liberator or just an ass. I made a plea for at least enough 
to pay for our drawing paper and ink, as a gesture in the 
right direction. It was agreed that thereafter more attention 
would be given to paying a fixed rate to cartoonists "if 
possible*'. Robinson and I left the meeting with those com- 
forting words "if possible*' to repeat to ourselves. 

I was keen about Ellis Jones's suggestion that a new 



magazine be launched. We promptly arranged to hold a con- 
ference on the question in Allaire's restaurant During the 
war that old-time hang-out of the literati had become sad 
and pretty much abandoned because it was German, and even 
after it had been lavishly decorated with American flags, 100 
per cent Americans who had once patronized it still stayed 

It was one of those "be sure to come** conferences, and 
we gathered at a spacious table where members of the same 

CHARLES W. ERVIN, managing editor 
of the New York Daily Call. 

group had met often to discuss the tragic aspects of a war 
which we all felt had been an inexcusable wrong. Those 
present included Charles W. Ervin, managing editor of the 
Call; Ryan Walker, its prolific cartoonist; Charles W. Wood, 
then on the World, and several others. 

We thought it time to satirize the whole capitalistic 
works. Not with subtle analysis of conditions in essays and 
the like, but with straightforward expose in cartoons and 
comment, and with comedy rampant. Certainly now the 


people would respond to such truth. But we were conscious 
of the fact that many radicals and liberals were weary and 
worn out with vain hope. After the Versailles treaty many 
of them had thrown up their hands in despair. Wilson's Four- 
teen Points, a covenant which promised the beginning of a 
new and honest deal for the sorrowing world, had been 
choked to death, to the satisfaction of Big Business. But in 
spite of this atmosphere of disillusion, we thought the people 
would see the truth that would eventually make them free. 

Was there a chance for a magazine that would try to 
awaken the Socialist spirit anew, give new hope, and yet 
keep aloof from the bias of politics? Anyway we would find 
out. This first meeting was chiefly for the purpose of choos- 
ing a name for it. Never mind about the money to keep it 
going we would decide on a name, and start from there. 
The business meetings would come later, and they did, often. 

I had first met Ellis Jones when we were among the 
founding fathers of the Dutch Treat Club. For a time, too, 
he had been on the staff of the Masses. He was one of the 
first to enlist for the voyage on Ford's Peace Ship, and Life 
(which he had helped to edit and contributed to for years) 
had publicly denounced him for this and proclaimed with 
pride that he was no longer connected with the magazine. 

The conferees discussed the well-known names of existing 
comic papers American, English, German, French. Then I 
said, "Why not call it by some familiar name some name 
that we hear every day ?" 

Ellis chimed in with: "Like 'Good morning, have you 
used Pear's Soap?' " which was an advertisment long familiar 
to the public. 

"That's it," I said, "Let's make it Good Morning/' 

There were no dissenters, and I began to sketch out a top 
for the editorial page (technically known as a mast-head) 
with a jovial figure personifying the rising sun as our emblem. 

All those present promised to contribute writings or pic- 
tures, and we foresaw no difficulty in getting others to help 
in the same way. We would send out a call for material. 
That left only the problem of finding money with which to 
pay overhead. From his experience in publishing, Charlie 
Ervin figured we would need $10,000 to make a go of the 


"Certainly there must be money available to finance this 
kind of a magazine/' said one conferee or another. . . . 
"Satire and ridicule can be more effective weapons than sol- 
emn statistics and shrill denunciation. * * . Well ask the 
labor unions to take bulk subscriptions. And well get un- 
employed men to sell the magazine on the streets/' 

Ellis Jones and I came away with the understanding that 
he and I would canvass certain likely prospects for money, 
with the other conferees helping "in any way we can/' I had 
high hopes that day, with the keen interest the group had 
shown at the meeting at Allaire's. At this time I was 53 years 
old, and a bit battered and sad to look at in my mirror. But 
I felt that the magazine venture would give me a new hold 
on life. I needed that as much as the public did perhaps 

First I would get in touch with a well-to-do friend who 
had been enthusiastic over my Washington drawings and 
articles in the Metropolitan. This ^as Morris Rippenbein, a 
tobacco manufacturer in Perth Amboy, New Jersey. He had 
come to this country as a young man from Russia, and as he 
put it, had "worked like a horse" to get on, and though he 
had become rich he was unspoiled. Now past middle age, 
Rip was as radical, using the word in its derivative sense, as 
any of the flaming youngsters about me, but quiet about it. 
He had read widely in philosophy, economics, and history; 
loved pinochle and the theatre; and had a sober sense of the 

Long before our planning conference, Rip had hinted to 
me, one evening when we dined together in the Lafayette, 
that he might help finance a comic magazine edited by me 
if I would start one. 

So we met again and I put the question up to him. He 
got out a pencil and paper and begaa figuring. Yes, he would 
help, with money and otherwise, but he could not give any 
great sum of money, he explained; he had to be cautious 
with his income because he had a large family to support, 
including aunts, sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, and cousins 
here and abroad. He was ready to be one of a group of indi- 
viduals who would give $75 a month each toward expenses 
provided we could raise the essential $10,000 preliminary 
fund. To have a chance of survival, the project must start 


with enough cash in hand to carry us safely at least a year 
without worry. 

That was sound sense, of course, and I set out with confi- 
dence to round up that money. Systematically I made ap- 
pointments by telephone and went to see the best of the 
prospects on the list and sometimes Rip went with me and 
explained better than I the importance of the proposed maga- 
zine. But the going was tough. If at that time there was any 
lack of sympathy in my heart for the man who finds it nec- 
essary to beg, I've had a full complement of it ever since. 
No harder work than that. 

Some days I would do pretty well but other days were 
disheartening. I could always get an entree, but when a tired 
radical with a comfortable income would say, "Good luck, 
Art, here's a check for fifty dollars*', I would wonder how 
long it would take the Good Morning sun to rise if that was 
all the encouragement it was going to get. . . . Then I'd 
have a run of better days. And my spirits would lift again. 
Eugen Jan Boissevain wrote a check for $1,000 and asked 
if that was enough; this was compensation for all the weeks 
of weariness. 

Max Eastman, however, was plainly vexed at the pros- 
pect of the new publication starting. He felt that our collec- 
tions were cutting into the Liberator's sources of money, for 
naturally we would appeal to much the same kind of people 
for support. There was of course no denying that one of the 
principal duties of the Liberator's editor was to raise funds 
to meet the frequent operating deficit. 

After three months I had gathered in about $4,500 in 
cash. Meanwhile Ellis Jones, who was to be editor of Goorf 
Morning, was in an office that we had rented in the People's 
House, mainly occupied by the Rand School, at 7 East 15th 
Street. He was impatient to go ahead fund or no fund. 

I knew from my investigations that $10,000 was little 
enough to have in starting a weekly magazine such as we had 
planned. But Ellis argued that the important thing was to 
get out the first issue. After that after people saw that the 
magazine was a fact and not just a hope money could be 
raised more easily. He had been working on the dummy, and 
was practically ready to go to press, if I would say the word. 

Though reluctant, I acquiesced, much to the annoyance 


and disappointment of Morris Rippenbein. "Foolish!" he 
said* . . . "You're right/' I answered, "but let 'er go. I'm 
not a tired radical, but I'm tired of begging for money/' 

So Goorf Morning arose with this pronouncement on its 
editorial page: "A weekly burst of humor, satire, and fun 
with now and then a fleeting beam of wisdom/' The first 
issue of 10,000 copies was published May 8, 1919, and sold 
out quickly. It looked like a success. Obviously peeved at the 
premature start, Rip nevertheless paid in the promised $75 
a month, and continued to do so during the three years that 
the magazine lived* And now that Goocf Morning had peered 
over the horizon, cheerful letters came in to commend the 
new day from Hendrik Van Loon, William Marion Reedy, 
Clarence Day Jr., Stephen Leacock, Horace Traubel, Oscar 
Ameringer, and numerous others. 

After five months, Ellis Jones, who had been writing the 
editorials and a capital series called "Sinbad and the Old Man 
of the Sea", which I illustrated, became critical of the busi- 
ness management and resigned* There had been no business 
management to speak of, ^ but his criticism was well taken. 
Now it was my responsibility alone. I was editor, publisher, 
and goat. 

We were often hard put to raise money to pay for paper 
(costly at that time) , printing, distribution, and office ex- 
pense. As I remember, I received $50 a week for about four 
months, and Ellis Jones received the same during his connec- 
tion with the magazine. Our stenographer, who was also 
receptionist, received $25 a week, although later we raised 
that to $35. 

For some time we got along without paying much atten- 
tion to promotion or the business end of publishing. But 
there was a tradition in radical circles that a business man- 
ager who could get advertising and make a radical magazine 
a going concern was some kind of a magician, a wand-waver 
worth more than mere editors. As a consequence, prospective 
business managers would call on me often, each one assuring 
me that all that was needed to build Good Morning's circula- 
tion to Saturday Evening Post proportions was his services. 
Finally I acceded to the idea that a business manager might 
be useful. But I made it plain that he would have to work 
more for glory than for money. During its precarious life our, 


magazine had three business managers the last one, A, H. 
Howland, generously donating his services most of the time, 
as I, too, was doing. The receptionist-stenographer was 
always paid first. Income from news-stand sales and 4,000 
subscriptions kept us afloat and in good humor the first year. 
But banquets and balls for the purpose of money-raising 
and a lynx-eyed hunt for an angel willing to take a chance 
on a promising magazine were vitally necessary and we 
staged social functions of picturesque character as often as we 
thought our public would respond to them. 

A GOOD MORNING POSTER, announcing a spring-time dance to aid 
its treasury. 

One of these, a Harvest Festival, is memorable for sev- 
eral reasons, including the funds which it inadvertently failed 
to produce. This was held in Yorkville Casino on Saturday, 
November 6, 1920. Dinner and dance, with corn-stalks and 
pumpkins for decorations. Charles W. Wood was chairman, 
and a frolicsome note keyed the speeches. Helen Keller spoke, 

"I came tonight, knowing there would be no blue devils 
here. . . . You are all jolly good fellows. You have kept 
alive, through the bitter winter of the world's discontent, the 
spirit of spring and youth. Your gayety has blown my own 


heart into a glow. . . . The world needs more of this daunt- 
less spirit of laughter. . . . While we can meet together and 
laugh, there is hope for the world. With laughter and hope 
and the Revolution in our hearts, all the powers of earth 
shall not prevail against us/' 

I read my annual report on the status of Good" Morning: 

"Cash on hand, $2.33, also 20 cents worth of slightly 
damaged postage stamps; assets, about $49* As for liabilities, 
we are liable to do almost anything. . . . Disbursements 
have been considerable. Exact figures are hard to get at. Any 
money that we received was so quickly snatched from us by 
printers and paper dealers that we couldn't get time to record 
the transaction. . . . 

"One day last week two subscriptions came in the same 
mail one from a woman in Iowa, who said she was 'dis- 
gusted', and one from a man in Milepost, Missouri, who said 
he was 'temporarily in an insane asylum/ but that he was 
'with us heart and soul/ . . . Goocf Morning was partisan 
in the late campaign. It opposed Wilson and Bunk and advo- 
cated Harding and Hell. Some of our stockholders think we 
should have stayed out of politics, but our leading contribu- 
tor, the Poor Fish, said he would resign if we didn't advocate 
a change. . . /' 

Charlie Wood was supposed to have followed my report 
with an appeal for funds, but everybody was having such a 
good time that this matter slipped his mind. I didn't notice 
the omission either. 

That night I met a tall young man named John Nicholas 
Beffel, who had just returned from the Pacific Coast, where 
he had reported for the New York Call and other labor 
papers the trial of ten I.W.W. members for defending their 
hall in Centralia, Washington, against an American Legion 
mob. He had come back lecturing across the country on the 
class-war in the West. 

Tables and chairs were being cleared away for the dance 
as Beffel told me about talking with Tom Mooney in San 
Quentin penitentiary and with Carl Haessler, conscientious 
objector from Wisconsin, in Alcatraz. Then one of Good 
Morning's trusty henchmen hove in sight with a huge colored 
papier-mache head of the Poor Fish, for which we had paid 
$30. Instantly Beffel's husky shoulders suggested something, 


and I, as president of the publishing corporation, elected him 
to wear that fantastic costume. Helen Keller stood near, and 
presently her sensitive hands were exploring the contour of 
the Poor Fish's head, asking whether he was a whale or a 
shark, and feeding him red apples. 

Now the orchestra struck up, and the grand march began, 
led by the Poor Fish and Polly Markowitz, bobbed Titian- 
haired youngster, who was then with the Federated Press. 
I was next in line, with my lovely partner of the evening, 
Jessica Milne, 

By the time we had swung into the dancing, Charlie 
Wood remembered with chagrin that he had overlooked the 
main purpose of the affair. In a valiant attempt to save the 
occasion, he and others who knew what had happened, went 
among the guests holding out their hats while trying to ex- 
plain but too late. The opportune time had passed. Appar- 
ently the assembled merry-makers had put all thoughts of 
money out of their minds. So the harvest that evening was 
sparse, though as a festival the gathering was one of Good 
Morning's best* 

However, other dances and parties for fund-raising kept 
us from bankruptcy* We had established a cartoon mat serv- 
ice, which was subscribed to by many labor papers through- 
out the country, but starting as an asset, it turned out to be 
a liability. Our clients enthusiastically published the material 
we supplied, but most of them were low on cash, and collec- 
tions were difficult, often impossible. 

Our mainstays among contributing writers were Charles 
W. Wood and T. Swann Harding, while occasional pieces 
in prose or verse came from Howard Brubaker, Samuel 
DeWitt, Clement Wood, Phillips Russell, Mabel Dwight, 
Miriam Allen DeFord, Art Shields, Samuel Roth, John 
Nicholas Beffel, and Skepticuss. 

Artists who drew for the magazine included Boardman 
Robinson, Hendrik Van Loon, Robert Minor, Maurice 
Becker, Reginald Marsh, Cornelia Barns, Peggy Bacon, Clara 
Tice, Lou Rogers, Will Crawford, Edmund Duffy, William 
Auerbach Levy, Alice Beach Winter, William Cropper, 
Adolph Dehn, Frank Hanley, Norman Jacobson, Albert Lev- 
ering, Frank Walts, John Barber, and F. F. Jerger. 

Volunteers were plentiful in emergencies, especially when 


we needed to mail out circulars* Martha Foley would often 
assist in the editing, and once at least she wrote the editorial 
page. Arthur Cole and Horace Reis, both of whom were then 
on the Nation, would come to the office and help on make-up 

Our friends among the writers and artists were glad to 
contribute; all we had to do was ask them. I knew that 
none of them expected pay but once when we chanced to 
have some extra cash in the bank I sent checks to about 
20 contributors as a surprise; doubtless it also was a shock* 

Good Morning 


I remember letters I received thanking me and saying they 
never expected it. 

When Woodrow Wilson spoke in Kansas City shortly 
after his return from Versailles and told the real cause of the 
war of 19 14-18, I made a cartoon about it for Good Morn- 
ing, entitling it "Letting the Cat Out of the Bag." With 
this we reproduced an all-revealing passage from his speech: 

'Is there any man here, or any woman, . .- .is there 
any child here, who does not know that the seed of war in 
the modern world is industrial and commercial rivalry? The 
real reason that the war we have just finished took place 
was that Germany was afraid her commercial rivals were 
going to get the better of her, and the reason why some 


nations went into the war was that they thought Germany 
would get the commercial advantage of them. . . . This 
war, in its inception, was a commercial and industrial war* 
It was not a political war/' 

Max Eastman's annoyance at the launching of Goorf 
Morning did not cause any break between us, and I continued 
to contribute to the Liberator. Late in August, 1919, Max 
and I went to Chicago to report for that magazine the 
emergency convention of the Socialist party, which immedi- 
ately split off into conventions at which two other radical 
movements were set going the Communist party and the 
Communist Labor party. 

Sitting at the press table in Machinists' Hall on South 
Ashland Avenue on the opening day of the S.P. gathering, 
we saw a stirring contest for power. Adolph Germer, na- 
tional secretary, and member of the right wing, was in the 
chair, and it was evident at the start that he faced an intense 
fight from the militant left wing. The Socialist party's na- 
tional executive committee had been expelling branches, locals, 
and individual members all over the country for conduct 
which it thought too brash and disgracefully radical. 

John Reed was one of the group which was determined 
to check the conservative trend of the old-line Socialists. It 
was the idea of Reed, Louis B. Boudin, C E. Ruthenberg, 
Alfred Wagenknecht, and other delegates that they could 
capture the convention and make the party over in the image 
of revolutionary Marxism as they understood it. It was wild 
ferment from the beginning. 

Just before Max and I arrived, Jack Reed had had a 
fight with Julius Gerber of the right wing out on the porch 
of the convention hall. Chuckling as he described it, he told 
me that it began like a boxing-match and that, after a few 
bouts, he held Julius oif at arm's length clutched by his neck. 
"It was a great fight. Too bad you missed it," he said. I made 
a picture of it from Jack's description, published in the 

When it looked as if the militants actually would take 
control of the convention, the police came and cleared the 
hall of all persons present except those who were approved 
by the right wing leaders. One of those ejected was a delegate 


who had received the largest vote in Kansas, Having been 
forced to leave, Reed and his allies, in a dramatic walkout, 
marched to a room on the floor below and opened the first 
convention of the Communist Labor party. That room not 
being large enough, they moved over to the I.W.W. hall on 
Throop street. A third group, made up of members of the 
blavic Federations and of Michigan members of the S.P. who 
had been expelled (all Michigan members had been ousted 
in a bloc) hastened to Smolny Hall on Blue Island Avenue 
and there held the convention of the Communist party. (Sub- 
sequently, the Communist Labor party faded out and more 
or less of its substance was absorbed by the Communist 

Here Jack Reed was in the most playful and yet the most 
serious mood in which I had ever seen him. When his group 
opened their convention they sang the Internationale with a 
gusto which resounded throughout the building and into the 
street. Both right and left wings claimed credit for victory 
that day. 

I met Victor Berger, who was one of the Old Guard, 
as we left the scene. "Say, Art/' he said, "you tell Jack he 
better write another book." 

"About what?" I asked. 

"You tell Jack to write a book about the Three Days 
That Shook the Left Wing." 

Chapter 34 

ATER a couple of years there were times when volunteer 
cooperation reached a low ebb, and I found myself 
doing most of the cartoons, reading copy, writing 
editorials, making up the magazine, and falling asleep at my 
desk when I should have been on the move. Surely Good 
Morning had given me a new interest in life, as I had hoped, 
but now I knew that the burden of publication routine was 
becoming too much for me. 

Sometimes when my spirits sagged under the strain, I 
would take long walks through quiet back streets late at 
night to reflect on the future. At the age of fifty-four the 
man or woman is lucky who does not have to fight off gloom. 
When you reach the half-century line you begin to think 
seriously about how to apportion your time, to get the best 
out of yourself while the years are slipping away. As a young 
man you don't care all the time in the world is ahead, 

I would berate myself for not having drawn on the stone 
to get those variegated values of light and shade which make 
lithography so fascinating. I wished I had not neglected 
etching. I was sure I could handle the dry point stylus on the 
copper plate. And why had I not done, or tried to do, car- 
toons in oil-paint? Certainly all of the great paintings of 
the Renaissance were basically cartoons, to propagandize the 
cause of Christianity. I, too, had a cause and why not try 
to put it across in paintings? Several of my fellow artists on 
the Masses had found time to indulge their talent in media 
which made their work take on the look of permanent value 
to connoisseurs and critics. 

But here I was drawing cartoons on paper with whatever 
implement was nearest at hand pen or crayon when not 
writing and bothering about a publication with no time to 
think of anything else. And how much influence did it actu- 
ally have? Did it any more than touch the edge of its possi- 



bilities? Anyway, I knew that starting with only $4,500 
instead of waiting until we had raised the whole $10,000 
or better still $50,000 was a mistake* 

These questions would come into my mind as I sat at my 
desk laboring over copy* In "such an hour of retrospection I 
was visited by three young men from the Art Students' 
League* The spokesman, David Morrison, achieved consid- 
erable note as a painter a few years later. They came as a 

JAMES EADS HOW, millionaire hobo, 
gave me marshmallows but no money. 

committee from the League to ask if I would become an 
instructor of one of the drawing classes there* When I shook 
my head they told me of the simple and seemingly easy re- 
quirements just going to the school twice a week and criti- 
cizing the work of the students for which I would be 
paid something like $60 weekly. But I said no, that I had a 
magazine to look after which took all my time and what 
was more to the point, that I felt I was not equipped tempera- 
mentally to be a successful instructor* 

On another day when die problem of finances was press- 


ing heavily on our minds, dear old James Eads How, the 
"millionaire hobo", dropped in. While I was welcoming him, 
A. H. Howland, the business manager, hastened to remove 
a pile of newspapers from the extra chair, so that our caller 
would be comfortable. Then I explained the situation, and 
tactfully asked How if he could help out with a loan to keep 
us from bankruptcy. He said something about his funds being 
"all tied up", but he appeared interested and wrote down 
the address of an acquaintance who might be able to aid us. 
As How arose to leave he took from his coat pocket a box 
of marshmallows and presented it to me. When he was gone 
and I announced the net result of the conference, "an address 
and a box of marshmallows", we of the office staff looked at 
one another silently and solemnly shook our heads then 

All sorts of queer literary contributions were offered to 
us by amateur writers, who lived in the city as well as in the 
sticks long poems, dissertations on theosophy, cowboy 
humor by drugstore cowboys, automobile jokes which were 
familiar horse-and-buggy jokes adapted to the machine ^age, 
he-and-she jokes, quips borrowed from vaudeville comedians, 
bright sayings by children who must have fallen on their 
heads in infancy, Pat-and-Mike jokes, and jokes about fu- 
nerals and hangings. Most of the unsolicited manuscripts we 
received came from persons who obviously were ignorant 
of the underlying trend of our magazine. 

Once an anxious faced middle-aged woman walked in 
and asked me to read a poem comprising several typed sheets 
written by her brother. It was filled with saccharine praise for 
Goorf Morning. When I handed it back, gently breaking the 
news that we couldn't pay for such contributions, she said: 
"I'm terribly disappointed! My brother had depended on my 
selling this to you he's got to have his teeth fixed/' 

For some issues of Good Morning there was a big de- 
mand. Jobless radicals around Union Square, a block away, 
seized the chance to make some change by selling the maga- 
zine on street corners. These young men (and some not so 
young) were mostly well-read and healthy minded, and were 
opposed to working like slaves for the capitalist system. I 
liked them, and knew many of them by name Dan O'Brien, 


Frank Strong Hamilton, Harvey Stork, Curly Daniels, the 
inimitable Harry Engels, and others. 

They swarmed into our fourth floor office around publi- 
cation days, and I learned things from them. Many of them 
had traveled widely, as sailors; others had been itinerant 
workers in the lumber woods, orchards, and grain fields of 
America, and some had been "over there" in the so-called 
world war. Certain ones were good soap-boxers, speaking 
effectively for industrial unionism, Socialism, anarcho-syndi- 
calism, with variations on the pleasures and vicissitudes of 
the "free life" of the hobo. A few had no regard for business 
ethics, not even among friends. But all were worth knowing. 


Betty Kaye, our secretary and office manager, called my 
attention to the fact that many bundles of Good Morning 
given out to the street-sellers on consignment were not being 
paid for. She said I was too easy with them, that the office 
could not be run successfully without some practical sense, 
and that I ought to be firm about sales on trust. "All right," 
I agreed, "we'll be firm/' So Betty began to treat the delin- 
quents with peppery resentment. She made it plain that she 
was going to end this grafting by so-called comrades from 
Union Square benches. 

With such thoughts in her mind and fire in her eyes she 
looked up from het typewriter one day while I was out, and 
saw a man enter who was travel-dusty and had the untailored 
look of a Wobbly. He said he wanted to see me. 


"He isn't in/' said Betty tartly, "and I don't know when 
he's coining back. But listen if you want to peddle Goocf 
Mornings we're through do you hear?" "We're through 
with you bums!" 

Soon after I got back to the office there was a phone call 
from Upton Sinclair saying he was in town, and could we 
get together for dinner? He had looked in at my office but had 
"met with a screen of protective coloration/' Then I told 
Betty I wished I had been in when Upton Sinclair called. 

"My God!" said Betty, "Was that Upton Sinclair? And 
I put him out!" 

Sometimes the boys would be arrested. One night Harry 
Engels was trying to sell the magazine to a crowd in Brook- 
lyn. He read excerpts from its pages, held up a double-page 
cartoon of mine for all to see, and declared that I was "a 
satirist as great as Voltaire." 

A cop interrupted him. "That's enough of that. Come 
with me!" 

Taken to court, the prisoner was dismissed with a repri- 
mand. Next day he sent me a clipping from the Brooklyn 
Eagle citing the offending quotation from his speech, with a 
note pointing out that those who sold Goocf Morning had to 
ran risks, and that the business office ought to be lenient with 

Engels had a clever way with audiences, and always put 
on a good show. From his well dressed appearance, he might 
have been a rich man's son. He had a friend who owned one 
of the better makes of automobiles. The two w6uld drive up 
to a $pot where a radical soap-boxer was making a speech 
to a crowd of workers. Engels would interrupt the other, 
and would address the audience from a capitalistic point of 

"Don't we give you parks and free schools and bridges?" 
he would demand. "Haven't we given you the five-cent farfc?" 

And when he had got his listeners well steamed up with 
indignation, he would begin talking about the merits of 
Goocf Morning as a literary diet for those who were not 
satisfied with the "gifts" from the capitalists. 

In contrast to the rough boys who were continual callers 
one day I saw a well-groomed, cultured-looking old gentle- 
man looking over a bound file of Goocf Morning in the recep- 


tion room and heard Betty call him Mr. Allen* I left my desk 
when I heard that name, saying to myself: "I'll bet that is 
James Lane Allen, author of The Choir Invisible", and it 
was! I told him his stories were prose poetry, and we had 
a mutual admiration chat. 

Lincoln Steffens came in soon after his return from the 
Peace Conference in Versailles, where he had seen President 
Wilson's fourteen-point plan for healing the wounds of war 
ridiculed and spat upon by his European rivals in diplomacy, 
backed by the business interests of their nations. 

"You're right, Art/* said Steffens, "keep Good Morning 
going. There's nothing to do now but laugh laugh like 

Wise sayings of the Poor Fish, a character I originated 
in the early days of Good" Morning, attracted wide attention 
and comment. Carl Van Doren, then literary editor of Cen- 
tury Magazine, called it "a classic, a genuine contribution to 
the scene and civilization/' Lincoln Steffens wrote an essay 
on Poor Fish philosophy, with permission to use it if I wanted 
to, in a book of pictures and sayings of the Fish but I never 
got around to assembling the material for that volume. Many 
labor periodicals reprinted the likeness of the Poor Fish, in 
the various poses in which I portrayed him, while emitting 
his weighty thoughts on current topics. Long after Goodf 
Morning had ceased to exist, some labor editors continued to 
use pictures of this character of mine (without credit) but 
with new sayings which they invented, not always in the 
naive language of common street talk which I used as the 
true Fish idiom. 

Here are samples of authentic wisdom from the mouth 
of the Poor Fish, taken from Good Morning: 

' 'Progress is all right, but it ought to stop some- 

"The Poor Fish says he knows that many of our 
leading citizens got their wealth dishonestly, but we 
ought to let bygones be bygones/' 

"If people would work harder we would not have 
so much unrest." 

"Anybody who is making a good living ought to 
keep his mouth dwt." 

"The Poor Fish says that if there arc any ex-soldiers 

Good Morning 

THE POOR FISH. He appeared in many costumes and postures. Specimens 
of his wisdom are cited in Chapter 34. 



mixed up in these bomb outrages they ought to know 

"If a man has saved up a billion dollars, he is en- 
titled to enjoy it. Instead of trying to take his billion 
away from him, every man should try to save up a bil- 
lion of his own/' 

"Liquor is not injurious if taken in moderation* 
Unfortunately, the workingman never knows when he 
has had enough/' 

"The Poor Fish says agitators just stir up trouble, 
and what with his two sons crippled in the War for 
Democracy, and the High Cost of Living, we have 
enough trouble as it is/' 

We brought out a God Number of Good Morning on 
July 1, 1920. "Isn't God conscripted to support war?" we 
asked, "Isn't He exploited at political conventions? Why can't 
He be put to the good use of the common people?" William 
Blake, who illustrated his own verse, left to posterity several 
pictures of God, one of which we reproduced, pointing out 
that this likeness of divine omnipotence resembled a well- 
known American, William Cullen Bryant. 

"Other Blake designs of the Deity," we recalled, "look 
more like a composite of an Indiana farmer and Moses. Every 
artist who has attempted divine interpretation in sculpture 
or painting insists on a portrait with whiskers. Is that set- 
tled? Can't someone think of a new, rejuvenated, up-to-date 
God? We really believe that God would like to see a new 
portrait of himself/' Our readers were invited to send in 
such pictures. 

"More backbone in the public officials of the Holy Land" 
was demanded in a contributed editorial represented as having 
appeared in the Palestine Times, conservative organ of the 
Rome Chamber of Commerce at the time of Christ's cruci- 
fixion. Percy Atkinson, then circulation manager of the 
Metropolitan, was the author of this editorial. 

"Pontius Pilate cannot be commended too highly," it said, 
"for having upheld the cause of law and order in the execution 
of the so-called 'King of the Jews' last Tuesday. All right think- 
ing people will sustain him. Hence, it seems all the .more regret- 
table that he should have shown the least sign of weakness in 


making his decision. This is bound to react unfavorably upon the 
rabble who may accept 1 wash my hands of this affair* as an 
incentive toward further demonstrations. . . . 

"We must not forget that there are still apostles and adher- 
ents of the new religion at large. Their capacity for harm is by 
no means at an end. They should be immediately apprehended 
and summarily dealt with. 

"There are rumors that Pilate will be recalled by Rome. In 
that event we trust that he will be replaced by a strong, decisive, 
conservative official. At this time we need a business man at the 
helm, not a weakling or a visionary. 

"Another 'sermon on the mount* should be made impossible; 
further spectacular legerdemain such as the 'miracle' of the loaves 
and the fishes, upsetting the food market, should meet with^ stern 
repression; leniency toward prostitution, another 'go and sin no 
more* incident, affronting the moral sense of the community, must 
not be repeated. 

"If Pilate cannot deal with these conditions so vitally affecting 
our business interests and our social and industrial integrity, he 
should be recalled forthwith." 

And in that issue, the Poor Fish said that "God will pro- 
vide" but "at the same time he feels that the best planks in 
both political platforms are those which oppose the high cost 
of living/' 

One of the most successful issues of Good Morning, 
judged by sales and recorded enthusiasm, was the Harding 
Inaugural Number on February 15, 192L For this I made 
drawings of a grand parade in nine sections stretching across 
as many pages. I can use space in this book for only two 
illustrations of this magnificent turnout of notables; de- 
scription of the others must suffice. 

1 . First leading the parade came the editor, myself, 
with the business manager of Good Morning and 
the Poor Fish, in an automobile, all ardent sup- 
porters of the 'Back to Normalcy' movement. 

2. General Pershing proudly perched on a high horse 
with his chin protruding to denote bravery; Presi- 
dent Harding entirely surrounded by the "best 
minds*' Root, Hughes, Weeks, et aL 

3. The best people of Marion, Ohio, including Henry 
Deuteronomy Harding, the banker; Doctor Balaam 
Harding of Blooming Grove, Cousin Em, Old Josh 



Harding, and others. Also a bandwagon of job- 
hunters playing, "What a friend we have in 

4. Group of underfed school children doing homage 
to the Packing Trust (a gigantic garlanded hog). 
Col. George Harvey and Lillian Russell doing their 
campaign dance, the Harding Hula-Hula. Repre- 
sentatives of the unemployed strewing roses and 
chanting the same old hymns of hope. 

5. Liberty Bonds getting kicked around and howling, 
"I want to go back to par/' Dollar-a-year patriotic 
profiteers, including the 57 varieties of trust presi- 
dents, with Charlie Schwab sprinkling the street 
with tears. (Charlie had broken down and sobbed 
before a committee investigating his profits in the 
war.) Ku Klux Klan, bodyguard for the profiteers 
and standard-bearers of race-hatred, reaction, and 
private vengeance. 

6. William Howard Taft, only happy ex-President, 
dancing the toddle. Old Aunty Blue Law, Herbert 
Hoover, eating a 41 -cent lunch of mush-and-milk 
to relieve the children of Messarabia. The railroads 

(a silk-hatted figure in pauper's rags with a plea to 
"help the poor/') Henry Ford throwing an anti- 
Semitic fit. 

7. Grand Old Mummies of the U.S. Senate taking the 
air. Touching tableau of American and German 
capital trying to get together after "the recent mis- 
understanding/' Splendiferous float typifying the 
progress of religion. (Mammon atop a church 
equipped with cannon, the devil driving, Jesus and 
his cross being dragged behind.) 

8. Samuel Gompers, accompanied by his valet flying 
Sam's overalls. And now: Hats off! The Supreme 
Court (thunder from Sinai) , interpreting laws 
with dignity and respect for the best people. The 
Tariff Issue coming back to normalcy (a bearded 
ancient sitting up in his coffin) . 

9. Dramatic Troupe of Near-Thinkers (they know 
something is wrong, but are not certain what) : 
Fighting Bob La Follette smiting his breast. Sen- 
ator Borah, who tries a little to bore from within, 
The Power of the Press, ably performed by Wil- 
liam Randolph Hoist and Arthur Whizzbrain. 
William Jennings Bryan, playing the heavy in the 


new drama, "Resurrection, or Democracy Trium- 
phant". The Fountain of Wrath, Hiram Johnson, 
rehearsing for his next appearance. 
10, The Fag End: a private citizen (Woodrow Wil- 
son) moving his household effects with the help 
of Barney Baruch, accompanied by secretaries, 
waste paper, points, presents from King George, 
and dilapidated principles. 

Arthur Brisbane never seemed to mind my cartoons show- 
ing him with a bulging forehead and labeled "Whizzbrain". 
Around that time he published an editorial with a reprint 
of one of my drawings saying: 

"Art Young will die pointing to 'tomorrow* without 
ever having seen it, just as Marcus Aurelius died, or Karl 
Marx, or one of the Gracchi, or Madame Roland, just as all 
the young, ardent souls will die with their longings un- 

Goocf Morning had appeared as a weekly up to October, 
1919. Then we were compelled to skip some numbers 
through lack of money, and in January, 1920, we offered 
7 per cent preferred stock in our company at $10 a share.* 
But there was no rush to buy these shares, and in May the 
magazine became a semi-monthly. We came out regularly 
for awhile, then had to skip more issues. In August, Sep- 
tember, and October, 1921, the magazine appeared only once 
a month, although the masthead still blandly carried the 
legend: ' 'published twice a month*' and it was our hope to 
continue as a fortnightly. 

But the October number was the last. The burden of 
raising the necessary money had become too great. There are 
many pitfalls in magazine publishing. The successful pub- 
lisher requires a certain hardness, and he needs to surround 
himself with others possessed of pile-driving energy. The 
babes who enter the woods of publishing usually are not 
equipped for big-game hunting and seldom escape the bears. 

We made one more effort, however, in the name of the 
Good Morning Publishing Company. Selecting the best of 
the cartoons against war that we had used, with articles, 

* Earlier we had incorporated hopefully. 



poems, gags, and other anti-militarist materials, we put out 
an issue entitled The Soldier, and sub-titled Good Morning 
Quarterly. It included a cartoon of mine showing a disabled 
veteran watering a small tree that he had planted in a bat- 
tered shoe filled with dirt with the caption: "Bonus or no 
bonus, Private McGinnis is going to have a wooden leg, even 
if he has to grow one/' 

Goad Morning 

Bonus or no bonus, Private McGinnis is going to have a wooden leg, if he 
has to grow one. 

This edition caught the public fancy and was the most 
popular issue of all. Our Union Square contingent, many of 
whom had been in the war, pushed that number with the 
zeal of crusaders, and brought in surprising returns. But we 
were so far in the red, even after the month's receipts were 
counted, that I had no heart to go on* 

With that longing unsatisfied, I said to myself as I went 
out for a walk: "Now what, Marcus Aurelius?" 

Chapter 35 

JACOB MARINOFF'S purchase of my cartoons for the 
Big Stick continued to be my mainstay. I was still a con- 
tributing editor of the Liberator, which was then in an 
old building on East Union Square at the corner of Sixteenth 
Street. But the Liberator had never been able to pay its con- 
tributing editors or others whose creations appeared in its 
pages, and my market was limited. 

Though Life and Judge were friendly, it was seldom that 
I could produce anything to their liking. Everything was 
topsy-turvy in magazine land; old editors were frequently 
being kicked out for new* In the course of three years Life 
had tried out, I think, six editors and not one of them knew 
what he wanted. For a time the two Bobs, Sherwood and 
Benchley, tried to keep that publication, which Mitchell had 
so long guided, from slipping into "innocuous desuetude," 
but that's about all they could do hold it, and issue some 
brilliant numbers. 

But in the spring of 1922 Oswald Garrison Villard 
opened the pages of the Nation to me. It had never featured 
cartoons before. I was permitted to choose my own themes, 
with occasional suggestions from Mr. Villard or from Ernest 
H. Gruening, then managing editor. My first batch of pic- 
tures appeared in a full page in the issue of May 3, under the 
title "Looking On." This same title was used on various pages 
of mine during the next three years. In addition I was asked 
now and then to illustrate an article written for the Nation 
by William Hard or others. One portrait sketch I did at this 
time which I like to contemplate because the subject interested 
me so much was of Rudolph Schildkraut in "The God of 

That connection also gave me opportunity to go to Cleve- 
land with Mr. Villard to cover the 1924 Republican conven- 


Looking On by Art Young 

Sbatt These Be the Guardians of Our Educationf 

There are those who jay that the Dyer bill to prevent lynthiiv 
is unconstitutional. Perhaps, Wt are fast harnmo who* it con- 
stitutional and what is not. Child labor afftars to be unttitu- 
tional. If an American speculator gets hit toes slewed on o 
small Latin-American country, it's constitutional to kill o. feit 
thousand natives. But token an Ameriean gets killed by a mob 
of other Americans, maybe that comej tinder the toad of 
"life, liberty, and the pursuit of haffwuss,^ 

tors, ana jiw.wr assaults on t*e C onsitiutton. x 
those happy Convention days John mat made Z>ena- 
ttr; later the unthinking rabble refuted to return 
him to the Senate. That Proves fas cote; doesn t ttf 

"'"UP Like a Rocket and. Down '** a Stick," 

The Nation 

LOOKING ON. One of various full pages of pictorial comment on current 
happenings that I made for the Nation. 

tion at which Calvin Coolidge and Charles G. Dawes were 
chosen as the standard-bearers. For the -.Nation also that year 
and for Life and Collier's Weekly I made cartoons calcu- 
lated to aid LaFqllette's candidacy on the Progressive ticket, 
and some sketches of principals at the Democratic conven- 


Convention Notes by Art Young 

The Nation 

My impressions of the Democratic convention at Madison Square Garden 
in, 1924. 

tion in New York, where John W. Davis and Charles W. 
Bryan were picked to head the slate. 

Brisbane also had continued to give me assignments at 
intervals. He had me make a six-column review in pictures 
for the Evening Journal headed: "Art Young Sees Chatcve- 
Souris- You- Sec It With Him/' It was Brisbane's suggestion 



that I do the theatres three times a week for that paper. I 
was not sanguine about this, but being fond of the stage, and 
knowing there was good money in the assignment, was not 
unwilling to try it for awhile. Meanwhile, however, that 
wizard of caricature, Ralph Barton, was receptive to the same 
job, and presently got it. He succeeded Hanz Stengel, who 
committed suicide and a few years later Ralph Barton did 
the same. Ralph was tired of it alL 

This boy Barton from Kansas was a better choice for 
that regular assignment than I would have been, although 
he held the job only a few months. His work derived, like 

The Nation 

"Fight LaFollette on every foot of ground in every Northwestern state." 
The cry from the Coolidge campaign headquarters, 

that of Al Frueh, Covarrubias, and Steinegas, from a school 
of caricature just begining to be appreciated in America 
the arch-exponent of which was Gulbransson of Simpticissi- 
mas in Germany: the school of abundant emphasis on per- 
sonal characteristics, done with the greatest possible economy 
of line and technique. Such caricatures as the subject looks 
at and says: "O my God! Do I look like that?" Of course 
people say that about any picture which does not flatter them. 
But a portrait done by a super- caricaturist is like barbed 
wit not many subjects can take it. 

In the same month my Chauue-Souris review appeared, 
the Sunday American reprinted a four-column cartoon of 
mine from the Big Stick about government ownership in 


Russia, to illustrate the first of a series of articles by Frank P. 
Walsh under the general title: "Russia on the High Road to 

Don, my younger son, wrote from Los Angeles in the 
summer of 1924 saying that he wanted to go to Dartmouth 
College. Answering, I said: "All right, if that's what you 
think you need/' Yet in a day or two I felt that I had been 
a little too impulsive in giving that O.K. For I could see that 
Don's coming East would put a new responsibility on my 
shoulders. The expense of seeing a boy all the way across 
the continent, plus tuition and living expenses while being 
"educated/' I knew would be another big financial load for 

And I had met so many young men, graduates of colleges, 
who were no better off in the game of getting on than those 
with a simple public-school training that I was doubtful if 
the so-called higher education really counted for anything. 
I had always discounted the value of my own art-school 
experience. Certainly I had learned much more outside the 
academies than inside their walls. And what made the modern 
college seem even less desirable than that of forty years earlier 
was the pace young men from middle-class homes had to keep 
up in their association with the sons of the rich. 

But I had said yes to Don, and I couldn't reverse myself. 
I figured it might be well for him to look the situation over 
for himself* I sent money, and he hastened to New York. 
We had a good time together for a few days, and then he 
went to New Hampshire. In Dartmouth he elected to study 
Spanish, Latin, and Greek, and also took English, history, 
and botany. 

My concern about the pace Don would have to keep up 
in his new surroundings was borne out by a habit he soon 
got into, of telegraphing me, usually to this effect: "Please 
send me one hundred dollars. Urgent." Always urgent. 

I had made the mistake of not telling him frankly the 
state of my finances. Long afterward, when we had achieved 
a relation in which we could discuss such things, he explained 
that as he grew up in California he had gained the impres- 
sion that his father in the East was well-to-do. He had heard 
legends of large sums paid to artists for pictures, and sup- 


posed that the rewards to workers in the pictorial field 
generally were handsome. Thus he had no hesitation in ask- 
ing for money, by mail or wire, feeling confident that he 
would get it. 

Despite a presumable steady round of social activities, 
I suppose Don studied as much as a boy could be expected 
to at Dartmouth, for when I saw him again he told me of his 
high marks and seemed to have learned a good deal about 
things he wanted to know. He spent the following summer 
with me on Chestnut Ridge, and occupied himself steadily 
with drawings. Not a few of the sketches he made had con- 
siderable merit. In the fall he returned to college, but as the 
weeks went on I saw my bank balance sink lower and lower. 
For some reason sales of pictures had again fallen off. 

So with regret I had to make clear to Don that I was 
scraping the bottom of my treasury. Naturally disappointed, 
he accepted the situation none the less cheerfully, and said 
that he would leave college at the end of October, go down 
to New York, and look for a job. He managed to keep em- 
ployed at a fair wage, and after a while began studying 
in the night classes at the Art Students' League. He pursued 
sketching industriously and experimented with water colors. 

What he really wanted to do was write. Making repeated 
efforts to put stories on paper, and having trouble with them, 
he concluded that he had nothing yet worth writing about, 
and that in order to become a writer of substance he must 
do some substantial living. So he set out to get experience, 
and shipped as a seaman on a steamer bound for Buenos 
Ayres. This doubtless was good for him spiritually, and he 
seemed to have broadened mentally on his return. 

Next he was off to California again, to see his mother, 
and then got a job with the Associated Press in Los Angeles, 
tending an automatic teletypewriter, on which news from 
all the corners of the world clicked out on long rolls of white 
paper. Don wasn't earning much, but he was paying his 
own way, and he was proud of that. 

North, my other son, showed a definite inclination to- 
ward pictorial expression, which I had noticed particularly 
when both he and Don were active on the Los Angeles High 
School weekly. Don was editor of that paper for a season 
and wrote a weekly column, while North did illustrations 


for it. In short, my progeny seem to have desired the pursuit 
of the creative arts, though in saying this I cannot lay claim 
to having had much influence upon their development Re- 
cently North illustrated a book, Manners for Moderns, pub- 
lished in Boston. 

Shortly after Don had left college things suddenly began 
to come my way from unexpected sources* To my surprise 
requests for drawings arrived from respectable magazines 
which had not looked in my direction before. When I heard 
from Tom Masson, then associate editor of the Saturday 
Evening Post, that his chief, George Horace Lorimer, wanted 
me to contribute to that conservative world-popular weekly, 
I said: "Honest, Tom, you don't mean it!" He assured me 
that Lorimer did want some Art Young cartoons. 

I knew, of course, that my kind of propaganda would 
not appeal to the makers of this magazine with its editorial 
devotion to Big Business and Big Profits. But I thought of 
something else which might find favor there. For a long time 
I had contemplated a series of pictures to be called Trees at 
Night. Often I had made sketches toward this end, after walks 
under the stars on the roads near my place in Connecticut. 
The first sheaf of these pictures eleven of them, as I re- 
member it were sent for Lorimer's approval, and I got a 
prompt acceptance. After a few were published, I was asked 
to draw additional ones. For more than a year the series ran, 
usually every other week. 

My conception of trees showed them as fantastic, gro- 
tesque, humanized, or animalized, with trunks, limbs, and 
foliage tossed in gayety or inert and solemn against the night 
sky. They were not propaganda as that term is generally 
understood, but I have heard people who liked them say they 
read sermons in them all. For this series I received $75 each. 
I have a large scrap-book filled with complimentary letters, 
poems, and tree-ideas evoked by these drawings, 

One of the best of my tree drawings occupied a double 
page in Life. I have always had a hopeful outlook even 
when everything seemed lost. Nevertheless, as an onlooker 
I had seen so much in human life that revealed the pathos 
of hope, that I had to put the theme into a picture. Among 
other tragic hopes I had seen was an old man and his wife 


living in poverty, but holding onto stock in one of those 
kid-'em-along silver mines that they thought might some 
day bring them joy. In my picture this forlorn old man is 
out on a bleak hill with his hope symbolized as a dead tree. 
With a sprinkling pail he waters its roots. The caption, as 
published in Life, was: "Hope springs eternal in the human 

Later the Saturday Evening Post took another series from 
me entitled * 'Types of the Old Home-Town/* These pictures 
I regard as my best contributions to foMore Americana. Here 
was work which I greatly enjoyed, conjuring up from the 
days of my youth the characters that I had known back 
home. And I had traveled enough to realize that they were 
not just local, but that their prototypes were to be found 
in hundreds or thousands of towns. The content of the home- 
town drawings is suggested by some of the captions: 

"Uncle Dave and Aunt Matilda Every Saturday they would 
drive in, hitch the old horse near the court-house, and do 
their trading: butter and eggs for sugar, salt mackerel, etc. 
Uncle Dave was a 'Greenbacker'. He said, 'Money is the 
root of all evil/ but had figured it out that the more there 
was in circulation the less the evil/' 

''Ashley the Lamplighter There were eight street lamps in 
the business section. Our lamplighter's name was Ashley. 
When he struck his phosphorus the square took on a glow. 
Not much in kilowatts and such. But that was thirty 
years ago/' 

ff Adnt Nancy Fillebrown She went to all the town funerals. 
No matter what she had said of the deceased in life, she 
was there when it came to a post-mortem respect. Thus 
everybody in town was assured of one mourner at least/' 

"Pawnee Bill -Every year the town would be visited by a 
Pawnee Bill or a Kickapoo Charley, who would sell us 
Indian medicine made from the roots of wild cabbage and 
liniment from the bark of the snake-tree. He would cure 
farmers of their rheumatism right before our eyes. Them 
were the happy days/' 

For these types I received $125 a drawing. With this 
new income and sales to other magazines, I was enabled to 
make some much needed improvements around my home on 
Chestnut Ridge, Once more I was tasting the pie -of prosperity. 

Chapter 36 

A ROSS four and a half years the Liberator, like the 
Masses, had had a turbulent time of it. It too was a 
free-lance publication, not affiliated with any political 
party. Its editors and contributors theoretically formed a 
united front, and they wrote on many phases of the revolu- 
tionary movement, attacking the money-power from various 
angles. But this united front was a good deal like the "happy 
family** in P. T. Barnum's museum in New York, which 
contained a lion, a lamb, a wolf, a boa constrictor, and other 
oddly assorted creatures. 

"And do they always get along peacefully like this?" 
Barnum was asked by a visiting bishop. 

"Oh, yes/* said Barnum, " except that we have to re- 
new- the lamb once in a while/* 

There was frequent conflict among the contributing edi- 
tors of the Liberator over the question of what it should 
print, as there had been on the Masses editorial board* Often 
these arguments had to do with the relative values of propa- 
ganda and "pure art" or "pure literature**, but as the echoes 
of the war receded and the splits in the radical movement 
grew wider, battles in editorial conferences more often cen- 
tered upon the matter of tactics to forward the cause of social 
revolution throughout the world. 

Meetings of the Liberator board were irregular and in- 
formal. I attended when in town, but tried to keep out of 
controversies. I was much more interested always in drawing 
cartoons which would strike at a vulnerable point in the 
armor of the common enemy than in battling over the fine 
points of tactics. In my years as a Socialist I had attended 
meetings and seen members of my party argue hotly among 
themselves far into the night. I knew tactics were necessary, 
but I didn't want to be bothered with them so long as I was 
shooting straight and making a hit now and then. 



Often I have been amazed at the tendency of some of the 
controversialists on the left side of the political fence to 
detect the darkest motives in utterances and actions of erst- 
while friends whose opinions disagreed with theirs. I took 
but a small part in the internecine cross-fire. I knew my forte 
was drawing cartoons. Others were better fitted to endure 
the polemical heat. But I would not be understood as being 
unaware of the importance of official decisions and correct 
shaping of social propaganda. I knew that it had to be done 
with thought and care, but it could become ridiculous and 
frequently did. 

In February, 1919, Eugene Debs was listed as a con- 
tributing editor, and K. R. Chamberlain and Minor were 
missing from the roster. Minor had gone to Russia, and had 
been writing articles about the situation there, from the view- 
point of an Anarchist. This was the philosophy that inter- 
ested him most at that time; the doctrine that the individual 
should be free to live his own life unhampered by govern- 
mental restraints imposed against his will. 

Robert Minor, son of a judge in San Antonio, Texas, first 
came into public notice through his strong cartoons in the 
St. Louis Post-Dispatch. These cartoons looked as if they 
had been done with a blunt marking crayon on any kind of 
paper that was handy, and were never cluttered with detail 
only an eyeful, and just a glance would give you the idea. 
His work was the forerunner of the crayon cartoons in the 
daily press of today. In his early thirties he came to New 
York, to work on the staff of the Evening World. 

Once I made this comment on him in Good Morning: 

"When he talks, it is as if he thought a reporter for 
posterity were listening in, and his words and sentences are 
formed with precision, and are grammatical enough to sug- 
gest that a good college professor was lost to the world when 
Bob joined the proletarian movement." 

Beside Minor, many of the best artists and writers of 
that period thought of themselves as Anarchists, not as Social- 
ists. They wanted to be at liberty to act as individuals with- 
out the restrictions of government, Mrs. Grundy's opinion, 
or any other frustrating element. John Reed, Lincoln Stef- 


fens, and George Bellows also come to my mind as having 
anarchistic ideas in those days. 

But most of the many I knew who respected that philoso- 
phy lived to learn that something came before the Anarchist 
dream. That something was economic freedom, without 
which one could only give a feeble imitation of calling his 
soul his own, 

I think there is no one on earth who is not in some 
degree both Anarchist and Socialist. Some there are whose 
collective sense is confined to their own family. Others go 
still further and include a community or their country, and 
still others have regard for the welfare of the whole human 
race. But within the orbit of every one's social circle is the 
individual's desire to be a law unto himself. 

After Minor returned to New York he was acting editor 
of the Liberator in the spring of 1921, while Max Eastman 
was in California finishing a book. Max criticised the April 
issue by telegraph, and Bob wrote a long letter in defense. 
But to me this was just one more of those hot controversial 
matters, and as usual I stayed on the side-lines* 

As I turn the pages of the Liberator for September, 1918, 
my eye lights on another letter which takes me back to those 
feverish days. 

Fairmont, W. Va., 
June 23, 1918. 
My Dear Comrades: 

Enclosed find draft for ten dollars 
paying for the Liberator. 

In three weeks we have organized 
10,000 Slavs who were in bondage. Put the profes- 
sional murderers out of business; these Slavs were in 

Tell Art Young I have been raising 
H . 



I suspect that the last word in this message was subdued 
as a Concession to the supercritical rules of the Post Office, for 


Mother Jones had a delightfully extensive profane vocabulary 
and did not hesitate to use it in conversation. 

In the same issue is the black stamp of censorship, blotting 
out two items listed among the book advertisements. 

Thus magazine editing was a game of quiz to guess 
when you were within the law. But no lawyer was smart 
enough to advise you in advance of publication what you 
might legally publish. 

Whenever Mother Jones came to New York she would 
let me know. She was moving toward the century mark, but 
she still had fire in her eye. For hours at a time I would talk 
with her in her room in the old Union Square Hotel. With 
a pail of beer on the table, she liked to tell me all about 
"my boys" (the miners) , her experiences in jails, and what 
happened during strikes. 

John Reed and Louise Bryant lived at 1 Patchen place, 
and I would drop in there of an evening now and then. In 
memory I can see this dynamic boy, chuckling at some angle 
of his daily activity and then looking at a pad of paper 
on his desk as if he ought to be writing instead of chuckling. 

One evening Louise told me that she had been talking 
with one of Jack's Harvard class-mates. And he said to her: 
'It's really too bad about Jack. He used to write good libret- 
toes for light opera. Now I hear he's writing this humanity 

And this lovely daughter of a Fenian laughed in her 
contagious way, and we all laughed together. 

A few years after Jack's death in Russia, Louise married 
William Bullitt, long a Washington correspondent, friend 
of Woodrow Wilson, friend of Jack, and later Ambassador 
to Russia and then to France. Poor Louise committed slow 
suicide went the sad road of narcotic escape. Only a few 
weeks before she died she sent me a postcard from her Paris 
studio at 50 Rue Vavin. 

"I suppose in the end life gets all of us," she wrote. "It 
nearly has got me now getting myself and my friends out 
o f j a ii living under curious conditions but never minding 
much. . . . Know always I send my love to you across the 
stars. If you get there before I do or later tell Jack Reed 
J love him/ 1 


I had supplied cartoons to the Liberator frequently dur- 
ing its existence, and a good deal of my best work, I think, 
was done in that period. As I open a bound volume, I see 
one cartoon of mine, entitled We, which caused widespread 
amusement. It depicted two tramps, with feet sticking out of 
broken shoes, and one saying: "Say, Bill whadd'ye know 
about this? We've got to raise eight billion dollars in the 
next Liberty Loan!" 

The Mollycoddles Union portrayed a group of workers 
registering enthusiasm as their employer announced: "Now, 
boys, you've been very good, and I'm going to give each 
of you a five-cent stick of candy as a weekly bonus." 

That's For Us, Bill showed two disabled veterans look- 
ing through a window at a Victory Dinner, $6 a plate, in 
the Hotel Best People. ... As the troops came back from 
France I did a cartoon of an employer telling a one-legged 
doughboy; "Sorry I can't make a place for you. But you see 
a soldier gets much of his compensation in glory and in the 
thought that he has done his duty." 

Daughters of the American Revolution Hearing a Revo- 
lutionary Speech pictures some of our female patriots regis- 
tering indignation; "Seditious! ... I never heard of such 
a thing! . . . She's terrible! ... If she doesn't like our 
government she ought to have the courtesy to keep still 
about it." 

When Woodrow Wilson returned from France, I did a 
full-page feature on the Washington scene, reporting that 
about half of the political population in the capital were no 
longer standing behind the President, "except for the pur- 
pose of kicking him." . . . In Six Months is a two-sided 
picture, in which at the left Wilson, holding his sleek silk 
hat in one hand and his Fourteen Points in the other, stands 
at the large end of a horn while Fame shines upon him; at 
the right he is seen with battered topper, crawling out of the 
small end into the darkness of oblivion. 

Early in 1922 Max Eastman felt that he had to get away 
from it all. He resigned, and Mike Gold came in as the active 
editor, with William Cropper, another energetic youngster, 
strengthening the pictorial art in the Liberator with lively 
cartoons. Presently Joseph Freeman, a young writer and 
" way ward" son of a millionaire real estate operator, joined 


the editorial staff. Floyd Dell was now spending a good deal 
of time in Croton, working on a book, but appeared at the 
office frequently to lend a hand. 

Circulation had fallen off, and the going was hard, what 
with the steadily widening cleavage in the radical movement 
in the United States. There were vital causes to fight for 
Sacco and Vanzetti, Mooney and Billings, the liberation of 
the remaining anti-war prisoners but a large percentage of 
the Liberator's audience was displaying great weariness, espe- 
cially when asked to pay money for subscriptions. It was 
harder, too, to get people to attend mass-meetings, even when 
issues of vast import to the downtrodden were to be discussed* 
Month after month the boys in the editorial office had to 
go out and find money to cover printing and paper and dis- 
tribution costs. Often their untiring services were paid for 
in fragmentary installments if at all. In the light of my 
own struggles on Goocf Morning, I could understand their 

After a few months Mike Gold reached his physical limit, 
and departed for California, to rest his torn nerves and write 
a novel. This left Joe Freeman holding the reins, with Floyd 
Dell still faithfully co-operating. 

In October, 1922, I had a note from Floyd asking me 
to attend "a very important meeting, at which a decision will 
be made concerning the future of the Liberator a meeting 
at which some very good news or very bad news will be 
announced. " This took place in Bill Cropper's studio, three 
flights up, at 149 West 14th Street. Those present, as I re- 
member it, included Hugo Gellert and Joe Freeman. And 
here, too, was a genuine soul of a man Charles E. Ruthen- 
berg, secretary of the Communist party in this country, then 
known as the Workers' party. He had served a term in an 
Ohio prison for his anti-war beliefs and had been the Social- 
ist party's candidate for Governor there. Ruthenberg had 
requested the meeting inasmuch as he was returning to Chi- 
cago next day. Invitations had been sent to all those still 
listed as editors and contributing editors, but only a few 
responded. Others were out of town, and still others appar- 
ently were not interested. 

Floyd Dell opened the discussion, explaining that the 
Liberator's financial status was steadily growing worse. The 


responsibility was too great for those in charge to continue. 
If we stopped publication it would be a good deal like killing 
a child If we changed the magazine into an art and literary 
journal, catering to those who wanted to escape from think- 
ing, the effect would be decorative but of little purpose. 

Ruthenberg indicated that the Communists would like 
to have the Liberator, and Floyd asked us each for our opin- 
ions on a proposition to merge whatever was left of the 
magazine subscription list, news-stand orders, name, pres- 
tige, and good will with the Workers Monthly, then being 
published in Chicago. Naturally Ruthenberg was negotiating 
not only for the Liberator, but also for the prestige of its 
predecessor, the Masses, which in memory was bathed in an 
aura of admiration by its readers as the first magazine of 
cultural quality in America to espouse the cause of industrial 

"That goes with me/' I said in reply to the proposition. 
But I remember with what indifference I supported the pro- 
posal If a broker for a Wall Street syndicate had been there 
and had offered a large sum of money for our name, prestige, 
etcetera, as had been done with other magazines of protest 
to make them conservative while outwardly appearing the 
same I think I might have approved the sale. With a sub- 
stantial cash payment, we could have sent Christmas gifts to 
old contributors to both the Liberator and the Masses who 
had never received a cent. I had experienced so much trouble 
as an editor, publisher, and contributor that on this particular 
evening I was in one of my what's-the-use? moods. 

I knew, too, that the original Masses, out of which the 
Liberator had evolved, had receded far enough into history 
to be thought better than it really was. The Masses came 
along at that well-known "psychological moment/' at least 
for a few thousand people who were tired of the conventional 
contents of bourgeois publications. By 1922 many" of them 
had forgotten that the time and the innovation had much to 
do with the loving acclaim as well as the fierce denunciation 
with which our magazine was received. The devotees of the 
Masses had made it a model, a shining exemplar. 

Merging of the two publications was delayed for a time, 
however, and the Liberator continued to be issued in New 
York, with Minor and Freeman at the editorial helm, and 


with the board now including several members of the central 
committee of the Workers' party* But in 1924 the move to 
Chicago was made, and the Liberator name was submerged 
in that of the Workers' Monthly. 

Need for a magazine which would be an outlet for news 
and interpretation of events bearing on the class struggle 
from the leftward viewpoint, but which would not be the 
organ of any political party, made itself evident in 1926, and 




New Masses 


the New Masses was born in May. Sponsored by a broad 
united front of radical and liberal writers and artists, its 
initial editors were Egmont Arens, Joseph Freeman, Hugo 
Gellert, Michael Gold, James Rorty, and John Sloan. In 
addition to these five, the executive board included Maurice 
Becker, Helen Black, John Dos Passes, Robert Dunn, Wil- 
liam Cropper, Paxton Hibben, Freda Kirchwey, Robert L. 
Leslie, Louis Lozowick, and Rex Stout. 

With the desperate Passaic (N. J.) textile strike, where 
gas bombs were being used by the employers, as a cause to 
fight for, the new publication got away to a strong start. It 


experimented widely with literary and art forms of revolu- 
tionary propaganda* 

There was a long list of contributing editors, including 
myself, with both old-timers and youngsters represented. 
Establishment of the enterprise gave me a sense of fresh hope. 
The pages of the New Masses displayed vitality that was 
electric in its effect upon me, and undoubtedly upon other 
creative workers. 

Welcoming this magazine and expressing delight that the 
infant seemed so lusty, William Allen White, editor of the 
Empotia Gazette in Kansas, gave it only six months to live. 
But it has survived all the fears of friends and hopes of 
enemies that it might die an early death, and has gone on 
functioning for the remarkable span of thirteen years. 

It, too, has had its internal political upheavals, with a 
changing editorial board, and repeated financial struggles, yet 
somehow it has survived all vicissitudes. 

I have found satisfaction in numerous pictorial contribu- 
tions to the New Masses necessarily less often in recent times 
and it is good to know that this dependable vehicle of 
social protest exists. 

Chapter 3 7 

A time went on and other markets opened up, I began 
to plan anew for the building of an art gallery such 
as I had dreamed of in Paris in 1889, when with the 
optimism of youth, I foresaw myself as some day having an 
estate within easy distance of New York, on a broad hill of 
which I would build a studio and a large picture gallery. In it 
would be a Louvre Room, a London National Gallery Room, 
and other rooms for the display of my selected reproductions 
of the world's great paintings, etchings, drawings, and stat- 
uary from the principal museums of the Old World, and of 
course there would be an American room for my favorite 
prints of native art, and especially the work of the early 
cartoonists, including Paul Revere. However crude his car- 
toons, Revere, besides being the most publicized fast rider 
in American history, contributed a few notable concepts done 
on copper plate in behalf of our first revolution. And I 
would hang on the line Thomas Nast, Joseph Keppler, and 
Bernard Gillam. There, too, would be my own drawings, 
not too conspicuous, but in a spot where visitors couldn't 
miss seeing them. 

Basking in the glow of that youthful dream, I had not 
bothered to figure out the cost in detail. Who does? Whether 
you are dreamy or practical, building-construction always 
costs more than you expected. All I knew was this: I had 
over $6,000 in the bank, the largest sum I had ever accumu- 
lated. I was affluent, and friends told me I looked like the 
typical man of big business whom I liked to ridicule. 

Knowing that I was going to spend money on my 
"estate/' acquaintances were free with advice. Not many ap- 
proved the plan for an art gallery. Some thought I ought 
to be practical and build a garage; others who enjoyed sports 
suggested a big swimming pool down by the creek, and a 



tennis court to displace half of the garden. Still others felt 
that I ought to build a bungalow or two to rent, 

One well-meaning friend said: "Do you know what I'd 
do if I owned this place? I'd have a chicken farm. There's 
money in chickens/' Another spoke for a goat farm; said 
there was money in goats. 

Then of course there were some with "conservative" pro- 
posals. They said: "Now that you are making money, invest 
it. Put it into good stocks or safe securities." To me the 
latter suggestion was the most comical of all as if you could 
make a "good" or a "safe" investment. 

All of this of course was before the crash of 1929 and 
it still stands as my opinion of profit- enterprise in general, 
with more financial crashes yet to come. 

I can anticipate criticism of this book on at least one 
point, by persons who have read thus far that I am always 
taking the side of the worker with apparently no under- 
standing of the problem of the employer 

I have already said that an artist is one who can put 
himself in the place of others. All too often, I think, workers 
show a talent for seeing the employer's side, which is one 
cause of their subjugation. They are the apologists for their 
masters; whatever they, the workers, suffer, they feel is inevi- 
table like bad weather and can't be helped. 

On the other hand, the masters apparently do not try 
to put themselves in the place of their workers it would not 
be good business, and they do not intend to be their brother's 
keeper. That's why it's a class war, whether we like it or 
not, and whether the contestants realize it or not. 

The story goes that Pierpont Morgan the elder was talk- 
ing with a former employee of his who was relating a tale 
of hard-luck, his wife and children starving, etcetera. Morgan 
pressed a button on his desk and said to a flunky: "Put this 
man out he's breaking my heart." 

I think I have the imagination to understand the prob- 
lems and obligations of one who employs others to work for 
him for wages. I had done some employing as an editor and 
publisher, and had to hire and fire and learn from experience 
that business responsibility is a headache much of the time 
even a small business. Nevertheless, the employed manual 


worker or artist worker gets the worst of it. He is the under- 
dog. The ditch digger and the concrete layer use their tools 
to get results and are paid whatever the boss thinks is enough, 
unless forced by unions to pay more. The draughtsmen use 
pen or pencil and dig around on drawing paper in another 
kind of work, for an employer who takes the finished product 
and pays whatever it pleases him to pay. 

Artists and ditch-diggers are alike producers, whatever the 
tools used pen, pencil, and brush, or pick and shovel. Those 
who can handle these tools must work for those whose busi- 
ness it is to make a profit. And there is no legal limit to profit- 
making. So long as both sides are compelled to struggle for 
money as their objective, it will be a class war, a war between 
those who produce and those who prod the producer to work 
harder and cheaper. 

At the age of fifty-seven I had again become an employer 
not much of a one, to be sure, but enough to make me 
understand why the master curses the worker. While my mo- 
tive was not profit, it was the same in the sense that I had to 
hire others at a reasonable rate and get a building job done 
according to agreement. 

I knew a versatile New York artist whose rent I had paid 
twice when he couldn't meet it. He was a sculptor, furniture 
craftsman, carpenter, painter, writer of poetry, and interior 
decorator. With a wealth of self-assurance, he prided him- 
self on "making the walls of a room sing" and in doing 
substantial, artistic construction "knitting with nails" he 
called it. 

A familiar figure in Greenwich Village, he was striking 
to look at with his long black hair, waxed goatee, and 
moustache a kind of composite of a mediaeval troubadour 
and John the Baptist. Friends had said he was not exactly 

One day he came into my New York quarters, and I told 
him of my plan to build an art gallery and studio on my 
place in the country. My idea was to have a place for the 
housing and safe-keeping of my original drawings, as well as 
the exhibition of them with a stone vault as a wing of the 
building, to obviate paying storage as I had done for years. 
But first, I explained, I was going to put two large statues 
of toads or devils or something on the massive stone gate- 


posts out by the road. This was to be the entrance to the 
proposed gallery, and I must have a grand entrance. 

I showed him my small clay model of a toad which I 
had decided would make the best statues for my purpose, and 
asked if he could reproduce two of them on a huge scale in 
concrete or terra cotta. His eyes were wide with enthusiasm 
as he answered that he had a secret formula for making a kind 
of cement that sculptors could use like clay with the ad- 
vantage that it would withstand the elements for countless 
years. He had tested it, he said, with a vase of his own making, 
which had stood a long time outside his studio window with- 
out disintegrating. It was a secret process he repeated and 
he was not yet ready to reveal it to the world. But he would 
not only make the toads for me he also was keen to help me 
design, and build, the gallery* 

He spent a week of research in the New York public 
library studying the species and habits of toads the world over 
and came back with sketches of a dozen kinds. I told him 
this was all unnecessary; I knew the common American 
variety of toad, and my model, though crude, was about 
what I wanted. He soon agreed and told me he had enjoyed 
his research studies of toads. His enthusiasm ran up to such 
a degree that my own began to mount higher for both the 
statuary and the gallery. His work would be initiated by the 
setting up of those great squat toads of indestructible clay, 
or whatever he called it. 

It was early spring. We went to Bethel, and immediately 
he began work on the sculpture. I was not allowed to see 
him mix his new kind of cement. It must be kept a secret. 
There was a fortune in it. As soon as he finished the toads, 
it was understood that he would proceed with the construction 
of the gallery. I agreed to pay the prevailing carpenter's 
wage, with room and food free in addition. The building 
was to be completed by October, and I promised to help if 
necessary or to hire others if needed on the job. 

But the work moved much more slowly than I had ex- 
pected. It took the painter-sculptor-carpenter a month to 
model the toads. When they were at last placed on their 
pedestals on either side of the gate, I sent invitations to neigh- 
bors and artist friends in the country surrounding Bethel to 


come to the unveiling, which I assured them would be "a 
memorable event in the annals of art/' 

In the presence of a goodly crowd on a Sunday after- 
noon, Edna Porter and Theodosia Pearce, both from New 
York, pulled the covering off the statues. That was the signal 
for me to march down the path from my house to make my 
speech. Topped by an old high hat that I wore for fun when 
such serious functions demanded it, and a Daniel Webster 
coat that I found in my attic, I thanked everybody for their 
attendance on this "auspicious occasion/' Clive Weed shouted: 
"Hear! Hear!" The onlookers included Augusta Georgia 
Gary, her young son Peter, and Dr. A. L. Goldwater. 

I then told the audience what I knew about toads, and 
spoke for ten minutes or so, outlining my plans for the 
picture gallery toward which this toad entrance led. Some 
one asked: "Why toads?" 

To which I replied: "The humble toad has at last been 
raised to the dignity it deserves. I plan some day to inset 
jewels that will shine from the eyes of these toads of mine. 
Thus I shall pay my respect to Shakespeare, who said: 
'. . . the toad, though ugly and venomous, wears yet a 
precious jewel in his head/ " 

Three cheers were given for the Orator of the Day and 
the event thus passed into history, though unrecorded until 

Construction of the gallery on the foundation of the barn 
which had burned down in 1914, while I was in Washington, 
moved slowly. The old foundation needed rebuilding, for 
the gallery must rest on a solid wall. I helped trowel the 
Connecticut field-stones (which in the Mid-West were called 
nigger-heads), and there was satisfaction in observing the 
massive substance of that wall. 

But by the time the foundation was in proper shape 
more than two months had sped by. The artist-carpenter- 
mason was often seized by poetic moods in which he was 
impelled to climb to Lookout Point, the towering rock on 
the summit of the hill behind my house. I kept saying: "Now 
remember, it's got to be finished by October/' and suggested 
that we hire local help. 


"Oh, no, that's not necessary/* he objected. "I can do it 
alone in time/' 

Another month passed, however, before this genius got 
around to the frame- work and the side walls on which ^he was 
going to show me his way of "knitting with nails/' I had 
to order many truckloads of lumber, sheathing, asbestos 
shingles, and nails. With their arrival I would look at the 
bills with alarm. The cost had already run higher than I had 
figured for the completed job and his poetry pangs persisted. 

"I'm afraid the gallery won't be finished before snow 

"Oh, yes, it will" he assured me. "Don't worry." 

I paid his daily wage, without thought of his leisure 
hours on the hill until he began putting in bills for half 
hours overtime* Then the employer began to feel injured. 

October clicked off all of its thirty-one days, and in the 
first week of November the four walls were partly in place 
and the floor was laid in a way but there was no roof.^ 

One morning on arising I looked out toward "the 
dream," and saw a blanket of snow over everything in sight. 
In feathery, drifting white flakes, it was still falling, and 
most of it seemed to fall into the open top of my studio- 

After I had fortified myself with breakfast I cursed as no 
employer ever cursed before using words that sizzled and 
emitted acrid smoke and ended my relations with the artist 
craftsman who could "knit with nails" and "paint walls in 
a way to make them sing." When I quieted down, I said: 
"No hard feelings, but I'm through, and so are you." 

Early the next spring I employed Mary Ware Dennett's 
son Devon, an expert carpenter, to carry the work on to com- 
pletion* Now it moved along efficiently. I noted how well he 
took hold of the problem, and marveled at the agility and 
skill of this young man who had a job to do and was de- 
termined to do it on schedule time. 

For a month his wife was in the Danbury hospital having 
a baby, yet he managed to see her every day, work on the 
gallery, and get his own meals. I was in New York much of 
the time that spring and summer, but late in August I saw 
the result of Devon's work and was well pleased. 


All the gallery needed now was a pair of lamps, one on 
each side of the main door. These lamps I removed from an 
ancient victoria that I had bought from a veteran cab-driver 
in front of the Hotel Brevoort. I have told the story of that 
purchase in On My Way. All that remains of the victoria 
now, beside the lamps, is an oil painting of it as it stood for 
many years in venerable dignity amid the high grass under an 
apple tree. This painting was done by Henry Glintenkamp 

when he visited me for a week-end in 1925 to discuss our 
experiences in the late war and a new way of cooking spa- 

However limited the physical dimensions of my so-called 
gallery, it has been a comfortable place for me to draw more 
pictures and dream more dreams. As I said in the foreword 
to The Best of Art Young: 

"I- look around at my own drawings occasionally all 
alone, and in the quiet communion with my past, feel that I 


learn something, and that, given another ten or twenty years, 
I might do better/' 

Here are drawing tables, large and medium sized; the 
small collection of reproductions that I bought in Paris in 
1889; numerous books on home-made shelves, including 
a Daumier book presented to me by Erhard Weyhe; works 
illustrated by Dore and others, including Phil May, to whom 
I owe much as early guides; a biography of Thomas Nast by 
Albert Bigelow Paine; a bound volume of the original Puck 
in German; and bound sets of several magazines in which 
many of my drawings appeared. 

On Saturdays and Sundays in summer, my gallery is 
open to the public. Not on the main highway, it is never 
crowded. Those who come have heard about the place from 
others; sometimes they are visitors from far away, who 
perhaps have driven out from New York or down from 
Boston, bringing me friendly messages from old-time friends 
that I may not have seen for years. 

If the toads on the gate-posts are not an identification for 
those who come my way, there is a brass plate on the gallery 
door that has a history: 

One Sunday some eight years ago a man of seventy 
walked all the way from Ansonia, eighteen miles, to tell me 
he wanted to make a door-plate for me. He asked that I 
sketch out an appropriate design so that he, who had worked 
all his life in an Ansonia brass factory, could fashion a mold 
from it in brass. I drew a design around my signature, and 
in a few weeks he came over again and presented me with 
the finished door-plate, which he had partly hand-engraved. 
He was familiar with my cartoons in the Socialist and labor 
papers, and the occasion was one of pride for me. We never 
know, until some incident like this occurs, who is interested 
in our work and wants to say so in his own way. That 
friend's expression of appreciation in metal is one of my 
valued mementoes. 

For more than a year from the time we had begun to 
build the gallery I had been spending many of my evenings 
writing down reminiscences and reflections on happenings of 
the day in a kind of diary. Some time later, at the Hotel 
Laclede in New York, I showed Mary Heaton Vorse portions 


of my manuscript, which by that time had run beyond 200 
pages of hand-written material. She read a few pages and 
said: "I'm going to write to Horace Liveright about this/' 

In a few days a letter came from Liveright asking me to 
come to see him. And when I was in New York again I 
went to his office. 

'1 want to be your publisher/' he said. "Mary Vorse 
tells me you are writing a book. What is it?" 

I explained how far I had gone with my reminiscences 
and reflections. "But," I suggested, "here's a series of pictures 


called 'Trees at Night* which have been running in the 
Saturday Evening Post, and I've added a few that appeared 
in Collier's and Life. Thirty- five in alL How about publish- 
ing these first and giving me a few months more on the 
writing of the other book?" 

Liveright turned the pages of a dummy volume I had 
made up of the tree drawings. "Good stuff . . . but of course 
just a picture-book . . . won't sell very well. . * /' 

Nevertheless he was ready to take a chance. We discussed 
terms and in less than a half hour publisher and author had 
come to an understanding. 

For the reminiscences and reflections I had thought of 
two titles All Right So Far and On My Way. After con- 


saltation with Tom Smith and Julian Messner, his advisers, 
Liveright told me they all liked On My Way best, 

He had enough confidence in Trees at Night to issue it at 
a price of $3, though it contained less than 50 pages. It 
evoked some gratifying reviews, especially pleasing to me be- 
cause it meant recognition in a field apart from my politico- 
economic cartoons. At the risk of violating the canons of 
modesty, I will cite here some of the published comment on 
that work. 

Saturday Review of Literature: "It is a surprise to find 
the admirable caricaturist of the old Masses in an exercise of 
pure fancy. His success in the new adventure shows the ready 
convertibility of great talent. Art Young has let the dis- 
orderly arabesque of trees and plants against the nocturnal sky 
speak to him. They have told him whimsical, grave, at times 
terrible things. . . . These fantasies are rendered in black 
wash with a rich and free handling which a Japanese painter 
would approve. It is a book to put on one's shelves and 
take to one's heart/' 

Rockwell Kent, in Creative Art: "Art Young's trees, be- 
cause they represent the playful fancy of a distinguished man, 
are more convincing with illusion than the graphic imaginings 
of the whole Rackham school of professional fanciers. A lot 
of people will like as fairy tales these pictures of Art Young's. 
We like them because they are drawn with the same very 
personal power and sensitiveness that has made us like every- 
thing he has ever done/' 

Baltimore Sun: "A fine example, a lyrical cross-section of 
the work of one of the few real native talents that this coun- 
try has produced in art." 

Edwin Bjorkman, in the Ashevitle, (JV. C.) Times: "Art 
Young stands alone. In the thirty- nine drawings included in 
Trees at Night he has given free rein to his pen and his 

The first edition of On My Way was published in 
October, 1928, with a map showing the main trails of my 
life-route used as end-papers, and with a drawing of my 
friend the Brevoort cab-driver conveying me over the Con- 
necticut highways on the title-page. Liveright thought so 
well of this literary and pictorial enterprise that he printed a 


Trees at Night 


handsome de luxe edition as a private gift book for authors 
and other friends of the publisher and myself. The regular 
edition was chosen by the Institute of Graphic Arts as one 
of the prize illustrated volumes of the year. There was a 
second printing in February, 1929. 

Of course I was pleased by the hand given to my work 
by the press. Here are selections from some of the many 

Carl Sandburg, in the Chicago Daily News: "On My, 
Way is the diary of one of the sane and serene souls of the 
world sometimes getting het-up and landing a wallop. 
. . . Art Young is a living definition of democracy, what- 
ever that may be. He is more Jeffersonian than Jefferson, 
and knows things Karl Marx never had time for. He is onto 
Omar Khayyam, has Billy Sunday's number, and so lives 
that each day he is ready for Gabriel's horn. We believe this 
would be a better country and not so hard to save for those 
who would like to save it, if On My Way could outsell some 
of the best sellers/' 

Lewis Gannett, in the New York Herald-Tribune: "It 
has all the sentimental charm of a Currier and Ives print, 
with the added chuckle and thrust that lie in Art Young's 
pencil." . . . Hey wood Broun, in the New York Telegram: 
"The author has made no attempt to keep his narrative 
within a rounded whole. No sequence of time is enforced; 
as the thoughts stray, so does the pen. The effect then, is of 
some one talking at his ease in front of a log fire." . . . 
Freda Kirch wey, in the Nation: "With cause, Art Young is 
enormously proud of his talent; yet he is the humblest man 
that ever became autobiographical." 

Shaemas O'Sheel, in the Saturday Review of Literature: 
"He has achieved that most difficult of all things to achieve 
in letters, utter simplicity the ability to just tell the thing, 
not get tangled up in words." . . . Llewellyn Jones, in the 
Chicago Evening Post: "Though the surface of his book is 
a complex play of ripples in every direction, there is under 
the rippling cross-currents of the surface, the steady pull of a 
life that has always kept a consistent direction." . . . Harry 
Hansen, in the New York World: "At my house we are very 
particular about the books that go on the parlor table. Today 
I am going to add another book to the pure reading matter 


under the lamp. It is called On My Way/' . . . Time: "A 
merry masterpiece of shirt-sleeve autobiography, sketched by 
a pen that achieves with words the same quaint economy for 
which its line is noted/' 

Right here I think I ought to say that had the press been 
hostile with reviews such as "poor old Art Young is flounder- 
ing around where he doesn't belong" or 'This picture-maker 
had better stick to his last" or had refused to notice me at 
all, through some "conspiracy of silence" or had I simply 
been overlooked in the avalanche of books that pile up on the 
critics' desks I was fully prepared. I was ready to take 
praise, blame, or neglect for I had become used to all of 
them. There was, in fact, one review devoid of all enthusiasm; 
somebody on a newspaper in Louisville, Ky., said (I quote 
from memory) : "On My Way is a cartoonist gone gar- 

As I write the word "neglect" I recall meeting my friend 
Richard Duffy of the Literary Digest in this period. He said: 
"Why don't you send some of your recently published car- 
toons to our office? I'm sure the cartoon editor would like 
to reprint them." 

And I answered: "Listen I've been drawing cartoons 
for labor papers for many years. If the editors of the Literary 
Digest ever wanted to print any of them, they've had their 
chance." Then I thought that perhaps the cartoon editor of 
this magazine, the policy of which was to print both sides of 
controversies, never saw any of the labor publications. Any- 
way my parting word to Duffy was: "Tell the Literary 
Digest editors that they have let me alone for 30 years and 
to continue to let me alone I'll survive the neglect." This 
sounds a bit peevish now, but that was the way I felt that day. 

When material for the fourteenth edition of the Encyclo- 
pedia Britannica was being assembled, with various well- 
known Americans on the editorial board, I was asked to 
write an article for it on the Theory and Technique of the 
Cartoon. This appeared in that useful publication when it 
was published in 1930, and it was accompanied by a full 
page of my pictures among representative examples of car- 
tooning in this country. Subsequently the same material was 


used in a large volume entitled Graphic Arts, also issued by 
the Britannica company. 

"Materials and methods of reproduction are merely in- 
cidental in the world of successful cartooning," I wrote; 
''the main factors lie in the ability to invent ideas, to compose 
pictures, and to understand the value of emphasis. Creating 
ideas can become habitual. As the cartoonist looks about him 
he sees in the everyday walks of life scenes that he thinks 
might apply to political situations. These ideas he notes and 
stores away in his subconscious mind, some day to develop 
and release as cartoons. 

"Like the poet and the dramatist, he gets suggestions from 
the natural scene, from wide and purposeful reading, or from 
cartoons that have been produced in another era, endeavoring 
to improve them. We might say that the cartoonist is like 
the dramatist and, carrying the simile further, that the sur- 
face on which he draws is at once his stage-floor and pro- 
scenium arch. Within this area he creates a scene. . . 

"Once the cartoonist has decided on his idea, then comes 
the composition of the cartoon. Good composing also is 
something one must feel, as there are no set rules. But just 
as in literature and all of the arts, to compose well is to feel a 
balanced harmony or completeness, which means that the 
cartoonist has relegated to second place the less essential fea- 
tures of the scene and stressed the most important, that he 
is alive to the value of contrasts and above all knows when 
it is time to leave off, having said enough/' 

Chapter 38 

POLITICS were seething again in 1928. Another Presi- 
dential year, with Herbert Hoover nominated by the 
Republicans, Alfred E. Smith by the Democrats, Nor- 
man Thomas by the Socialists, and William Z. Foster by the 
Workers' party. That contest was notable for mud-slinging 
and poisonous whispering. Ordinarily calm Republicans 
solemnly warned me that if Al Smith should win the Pope 
of Rome would immediately take over this noble republic. 
And a middle-aged Scotchwoman whom I met in a friend's 
home in Brooklyn related in awed tones that she knew "some- 
body who saw a nun in Staten Island" put a curse on one of 
Hoover's lieutenants there. The alleged curse involved an 
elaborate ceremony, with a lot of gestures that savored of 
black magic. It was evident that the narrator believed this 
wild gossip. 

The opening of this campaign, with all the weird voices 
sounding, affected me as an alarm bell affects a fire-horse that 
is tired standing in his stall. I was r'arin' to go. The New 
Leader wanted my cartoons. Edward Levinson was associate 
editor then, and it was through his friendly co-operation that 
I did some of my best work. He insisted on large cartoons 
and printed them large. And as the election drew near my 
current drawings were reprinted on heavy paper and issued 
in portfolio form, under the title: This 1928 Campaign in 

But 1928 was a bad year for the Socialist party, for 
Thomas got only 267,420 votes, compared with the total of 
919,799 that Debs had rolled up in 1920. (There was no 
regular Socialist Presidential candidate in 1924, LaFollette 
having received a combination of Progressive, Socialist, and 
Farmer-Labor votes in various states aggregating 4,822,856.) 
Foster got 48,770 votes in 1928, and in 1924 his total was 



33,361. The whispering campaign had won for Hoover, 
and the social millennium seemed farther and farther away. 

Time marched on, but seemed to take delight in stopping 
occasionally at my door just long enough to leave something 
to annoy me. I could expect anything. It would have been 
no surprise if some morning I had found a lusty, squalling, 
red-faced infant in a clothes basket on my doorstep. 

Still I didn't feel old; just tired, moody, and a bit irasci- 
ble. Perhaps the great drop in the protest-vote had something 
to do with my state of mind. It made me realize what a pro- 
digious job of education we radicals still had to do to make 
the American people see how they were being victimized by 
the profit system, which the two chief political parties rigidly 
upheld. The flame of my optimism was burning low. 

As always, however, I found a lift for my spirits in work. 
That, I believe, is generally true with any artist. If he is busy 
with creative expression, in whatever medium he employs, 
his mind is at ease. 

And in the next few months not a few of my days were 
brightened by letters, from old friends or new, in response 
to what they had discovered in the pages of On My Way. 

When the stock market crash came in October, 1929, 
and the depression followed, all that downpull had a marked 
effect upon me. Selling cartoons and actually getting money 
for them became more and more difficult, and my cash reserve 
steadily dwindled. Gloom dogged my steps. 

It was of course no phenomenon for ijie to be passing 
through a financial depression. I had seen many of them, 
Republican and Democratic depressions, with no essential 
difference between them. Like the lives of most artists, my 
life had been one depression after another, with the intervals 
sometimes only a few months long. A streamline smoothness 
of financial going for a while then a big bump. 

The panic of 1929 was at first interpreted by many as 
being merely psychological. It was not really "hard times'* 
that had descended upon us; it was your way of thinking. 
If you thought that times were hard, why, that's what they 
were. I was one who had no wealth to lose (in the general 
crash of accumulated wealth mine made no noise at all) but 


I was having no end of trouble in adjusting myself to the 
havoc wrought by the panic and its effect on my personal 

Before me was the prospect of beginning all over again 
to peddle my pictures and conserve as best I could my connec- 
tions with what was left of once prosperous publishing houses 
on which I had long depended, I had seen so much ruin in 
the wake of the stock-gambling insanity and the tolerant way 
in which the people generally took it that I became sick, 
mentally and physically, as I contemplated what was hap- 

Now in my sixties, after all those years of effort, I was 
poor and ailing, and fearful lest I become dependent on 
others, I pictured myself as an inmate of the county farm 
in the old days we called it "the poor-house/* but the name 
had been changed to make it sound less humiliating. I saw 
myself with long white whiskers, sitting in a corner chair, 
with dim-watery eyes, a blueish-pink nose, and with cracker 
crumbs on my vest waiting for the end. I could imagine 
the superintendent saying to visitors: 

"There's Art Young over there. They say he used to be 
quite a noted feller, a c'toonist or something." 

And I thought: Well, if that's to be my finish, it's no 
worse than that of millions of others. But there was small 
consolation in that. 

I was still spending the colder months of each year in 
New York. Howard Smith and I shared the fourth-floor 
bathroom at 9 East 17th street with the occupants of an- 
other studio on that floor. Early in June, 1930, I was re- 
laxing in warm water in the tub and thinking about going to 
the country soon, so as to escape from the evidences of the 
depression in the city. When I got through I found that while 
I was taking that leisurely bath, a sneak thief had entered 
our studio and walked off with my best suit of clothes and my 
pocket-book, which contained $23 in cash and a $100 check. 
I hastened to have a stop-order put against the check, but no 
attempt was made to cash it. Also I notified the police. The 
thief was never caught. 

Soon I got away to Connecticut, and my secretary, Jeanne 
Duval, went along. A cheerful and conscientious youngster, 


who had studied drawing and painting. She spent that sum- 
mer on Chestnut Ridge, as she had the previous summer, 
classifying my drawings, taking care of my correspondence, 
and keeping the gallery open Saturdays and Sundays for 
casual visitors. On other days, when not occupied otherwise, 
she roamed the countryside painting pictures. 

Going back to New York in the fall, I heard reports on 
the general economic situation which caused me to have mis- 
givings about my own future. Cartoons were harder to sell, 
my market narrower than ever. What pictures I sold brought 
in little money. 

The Socialist party's national office had me do a few more 
drawings for a new edition of a booklet called the Socialist 
Primer, which I had written and illustrated to aid Scott 
Hearing's campaign when he was running for Congress in an 
East Side district This contained such questions and answers 
as the following: 

"Is this a spider? It is. What is its other name? The Capitalist 
System* Has he got an ant in his web? He has. What is the ant's 
other name? Workingman. Does the spider like to have the ants 
organize? No, he prefers to deal with them 'individually.' 

"See the boss and the worker. What are they doing dividing 
up? They are. Is it a fair divide? Never mind, the boss decides 

"Does the man like to jump like a dog for his food, shelter, 
and clothing? No. But the boss pulling the strings tells him it 
develops his character. 

"See the oil well . . . and the river. . . . Who owns the 
oil well? A private company of speculators. Who owns the river? 
The public. Is not oil used by the public just as water is? Of 
course. Then why doesn't the public own the oil well? That's 
what Socialists want to know." 

Shortly before Thanksgiving Day I got word that my 
son Don was in jail in Hoboken. I asked my lawyer friend 
Abe Friedman to see what he could find out about that. He 
phoned, asking what the charge was, and was told: "Assault 
and battery in a street fight." 

That puzzled me, for I knew Don was usually able to 
keep out of trouble. So Abe and I took the ferry over to 
New Jersey* We found Don in the old city jail in Hoboken 
with several other prisoners in the "bull pen/' the sight of 


him as he was led out into an ante-room made me feel ill, 
for his head was bound with a bloody bandage. 

Then we got the story. Don had gone to Hoboken the 
evening before, to see a friend off who was sailing to Europe 
on a freighter. While they were walking toward the docks, 
they were halted by two men who, without identifying them- 
selves, began to ask personal questions which Don answered 
was "none of your God-damned business/' One of the men 
laid a hand on Don, who replied by soaking the stranger 
in the jaw. Whereupon the questioners hauled out black- 
jacks, proceeded to beat up Don and his companion, and 
when they got through with that, revealed that they were 

Presently Don and his friend were taken before the 
police magistrate, with Abe Friedman appearing for them. 
They told their stories, and were released. Thinking of this 
incident, and what could happen to innocent persons mind- 
ing their own business on the public streets, I felt weak and 
nauseated, Don was philosophic enough about it all, charg- 
ing the incident off to experience, but it took something 
out of me. 

The cold early days of December seemed to chill my 
bones, and I was low on energy. I would get up after a full 
night's sleep, quite as tired as when I went to bed. The Seven- 
teenth Street studio no longer spelled comfort. And I was 
beginning to find that climbing the stairs to the fourth floor 
wasn't so easy as it had been; indeed, I had never thought 
of it as a hardship before. Now my heart would have spells 
of fluttering like a wounded bird. 

I could understand artists getting worn out when they 
had been doing a kind of work under compulsion in which 
they could take no real interest. But I knew I was not over- 
worked. My kind of labor was fundamentally a conserver 
of health and youth. Nevertheless something was the matter 
with me. I was too irritable. Bills for rent, light, telephone, 
and laundry would make me mad. In the ideal world I visual- 
ize, these necessary adjuncts to living would not be such a 
money-problem as to make them worth worrying about. 
I remembered the $3,000 that the building of the gallery 


had cost; I had no regrets about that, but I wished I had 
that much money again. 

Unquestionably I was becoming a case for the wise men 
of the medical profession. "Maybe I'm one of those terrible 
neurotics/' I thought. 

One morning I was crossing Union Square, looking, I 
have reason to believe now, 'like the wrath of God/' Half 
way to Fourth Avenue, I met Eddie Levinson, who appeared 
alarmed when he saw me, and said I ought to go to a doctor. 
Immediately I went to see my old friend, Dr. Harry Lorber, 
who stethoscoped me, and gave me pertinent advice. Then 
a few days later to Dr. Abraham Stone, who examined me 
further and then took me over to the Union Health Center. 
There Dr. George Price and his coterie of doctors led me 
to a room, where they examined the "artery transit" of my 
blood stream. 

I didn't look at the machine that was registering my 
trouble, but I saw those doctors watch it as closely as if 
they were discovering some valuable information that I ought 
to know. Their eyes registered greater and greater astonish- 
ment until the hand of the meter finally stopped. For a 
normal man of my age the pressure was much too high I 
had read that in their faces. I asked: How high? 

Dr. Price shook his head, saying: "Over two hundred/' 

He questioned me about my habits. One thing he told me 
Td have to do "stop walking up those flights of stairs/* 

"Well/' I said, "you advise people to do mountain climb- 
ing, don't you?'* 

"Yes, but not you." 

After this, at the suggestion of Samuel DeWitt, I went 
to see Dr. Solon Bernstein who fluoroscoped and explored 
my anatomical jungle. And I had a session with the amiable 
Dr. A, L, Goldwater, who prescribed for me a strict diet. 

I have always had a fondness for doctors, for they are 
usually fine fellows to talk with, especially out of hours. 
And I go from one to another without much regard for the 
ethics of the profession which, as I understand it, is "one 
physician at a time don't mix them/' 

Eddie Levinson visited me often. He asked me to tell 
him how I was fixed financially. I handed him my bankbook, 



which showed a meager balance. Eddie promptly conferred 
with Adelaide Schulkind, Norman Thomas, and Sam De- 
Witt. Acting as a voluntary committee, they talked wither 
wrote to others, and as a result money was raised which 
assured me of being able to cover my expenses for months to 
come, and to take ample time in which to get well. I was 
told that I could loaf as long as I wanted to, without feeling 
that I had to produce and sell pictures. But loafing was the 
hardest of all things for me to do. 

To eliminate the stair-climbing I moved over to the 
Earle Hotel on Waverly Place, recommended as quiet and 
comfortable by Deborah Camp. A month later Ben Belsky 
invited me to his apartment on Columbia Heights, in Brook- 
lyn, and I enjoyed some pleasant weeks there. 

I looked forward to the warmth of spring. I knew I 
needed to get away from the city's tumult, and again I longed 
to have trees and grass around me and to walk barefooted on 
plowed ground. While I rested in town, Sam DeWitt went 
up to Bethel and inspected my house on Chestnut Ridge 
Road, to make certain that it was in proper shape for me as 
a place of convalescence. He had repairs made, bought some 
new furniture, and saw to it that the kitchen equipment was 

In April I took a train for Connecticut, accompanied by 
a twenty-year-old nurse who had been engaged in my behalf. 
It was refreshing to return to the soil and I felt that here I 
would surely get well though my energy was scant, and 
it was essential that I remain in bed many hours out of each 

I got into the sun daily, and that was the best part of the 
whole scene. Some days I spent a few minutes in the gallery, 
noted the idle drawing table, and thought wistfully of all 
the work I had turned out on it, but had no inclination now 
to touch a pen. Looking at the backs of the books on my 
library shelves, I saw old favorites that I had long intended 
to re-read. Yet I opened none of them. 

But a bright day came in June when I had considerable 
more strength than in months, and soon afterward I went 
down to New York for another examination, which showed 
some hopeful signs* I was enough better so that it was pos- 
sible to dispense with the nurse's services. 


My chief need at this stage was not a nurse, but a man 
of all work, especially one who could prepare my meals. 
Accordingly the committee enlisted an old-time "Soakalist," 
as he pronounced the word Socialist, a veteran migratory 
worker named Stahl, who was a familiar figure around the 
Rand School, He was all right in the culinary line, but he 
had one idiosyncrasy he refused to use any of the aluminum 
pots and pans which hung in my kitchen, holding that such 
utensils generated poison in food. He insisted on cooking in 
old tin coffee-cans. 

I learned later that Stahl had been a lone beach-comber 
on the south shore of Long Island for years. He had a col- 
lection of reminiscences that were fairly interesting the first 
time he related them, but he wore his stories thin by repeti- 
tion, and after two months he had ceased to be either of real 
help or a novelty to me. So I had to give him notice. 

Then the committee sent up a Nicaraguan boy of excellent 
qualities. He cooked well, introducing" appetizing dishes na- 
tive to his home land. When he could be drawn into talk, 
he had good stories to tell, and some bitter memories. For he 
had seen civil war in Nicaragua, and his family were active 
political insurgents, siding with the cause for which young 
General Cesar Sandino gave his life. Of those memories, how- 
ever, he said little, and in the main he was a cheerful person 
to have around. 

Though I was manifestly in better condition physically, 
and though the group of loyal friends in New York assured 
me" that I needn't worry, that there was no danger of my 
going hungry, I still had dark hours in which I was fearful 
of becoming permanently dependent upon others. Days would 
come when I was weighted down with melancholy that I 
could not shake off and nights when I would lie awake 
thinking of dire things which might happen to me. Often, 
for no tangible reason, I would feel that I was at the end of 
my long journey. 

Those dark periods were lightened now and then by the 
visits of friends, some from New York and others who lived 
elsewhere in Connecticut They would drop in unannounced, 
bringing news of the outside world, and we would repair 


to the gallery and talk over old times, old battles in the 
class struggle, and changing situations the world over. 

On one such day an idea took hold of me which lifted 
my spirits away up. . . . Before I go to the poorhouse, I told 
myself, I'll write and illustrate one more book. Though 
nearly forty years had gone by since the publication of my 
first volume, Hell Up to Date, the curious interest I had had 
then in the infernal regions once more absorbed my thinking. 
I had seen so much hell on earth that I was eager now to 
find out what the ancient theological region was like after 
the passage of four decades. 

Early in September I began to map out the new Hell 
book. The morning after Labor Day was cold, but I didn't 
mind that. I took the sun on my bare body for twenty 
minutes, had breakfast, and got busy on the manuscript, 
James Rorty happened to come over that afternoon, from 
his place in Easton, and was a booster for my explora- 
tion project. And in a few days Stuart Chase was a visitor, 
and then Manuel Komroff, each voicing encouragement. . * . 
So I descended into Hell again, this time finding an entrance 
in New York City as I had in Chicago in 1892. 

During my 1892 exploration of the smoky regions below, 
I observed that so much mechanization had been effected 
that in interviewing His Satanic Majesty I asked him if he 
was not afraid that the capitalists eventually would wrest 
control from him, and in the interest of progress and profit, 
force him to abdicate. Satan laughed merrily and asserted 
that he could handle any emergency. 

But he was more confident than clever, for I found in 
1931 that he had been compelled to resign his power to the 
industrialists and bankers. The "malefactors of great wealth" 
and the "economic royalists" who had gone there since my 
first visit had arrogated to themselves the right to rule under 
a constitution written by their lawyers, a Supreme Court of 
their own selection, and an All-Hell Congress, representing 
their interests. 

Nominally, the new government was a parliamentary 
monarchy, with Satan at its head. The simple natives still 
called him king, but to the ruling financiers he was just a 
rubber stamp. His prerogatives had been restricted to shaking 
hands, receiving committees, laying corner-stones, and talk- 

ing over the radio. In fact, the whole domain had become a 
plutocracy, known today as a state of fascism or military 
capitalism, with most of the punishments and horrors of 
such governments which curse the upper world 


Art Young's Inferno 

I had occasion to record in the manuscript of my book, 
as it grew through the ensuing months, some pathetic re- 
unions and interviews with still sturdy old-timers, Charon, 
the ancient Greek ferryman of the Styx, had been compelled 
to retire, being displaced by a young sinner called Gharon II, 


nicknamed "the Snappy/' who captained a handsomely 
equipped passenger boat, Socrates, Plato, and Homer were in 
a sanitarium for the queer, where I also talked with Thoreau, 
Walt Whitman, Cellini, Karl Marx, Tom Paine, Louise 
Michel and many others. None of these sinners was allowed 
to participate in public affairs. Their segregation was con- 
sidered a necessary precaution against their upsetting the 
normal thinking of the Gehenna masses. 

Corporations controlling affairs in Hell under the new 
regime included the Sulphur Toothpaste Company, the Smell 
Syndicate, United Lava, Vitriol Distilleries, Noise Amplify- 
ing Corporation, Cinders Cigarette Company, Pitch Chew- 
ing Gum, Allied Alarm Clocks, Juggernaut Trucks, Intestinal 
Gas Company, Amalgamated Motor Sirens, Pink Bathroom 
Equipment Company, Allied Poison Gas, and Pitchforks, 

One of the oldest inhabitants complained bitterly to me 
of the changes in Hell He was boiled in oil for 3,000 years, 
but averred that the medieval Hades was preferable to the 
new one with all its so-called comforts and compensations 
modern plumbing, motor cars, movies, jazz, and the radio. 

Money, which was unknown there in Dante's time, was 
now minted, and the problem of the millions of suffering 
sinners was to get some of it in order to exist. There were a 
Wall Street, subways, insurance payments on everything, 
ear-shattering noises, sickening odors, unemployment, profit 
madness, slums, pay toilets (usually two miles away) , rival 
wars for certain areas of the narrowing open spaces quite 
as on the earth's crust. 

When the 1932 Presidential campaign got into swing I 
interrupted my work on the Hell book, and was glad to be 
in another political contest The national office of the Social- 
ist party had commissioned me to produce two cartoons 
each week* 

Herbert Hoover was running for re-election against 
Franklin D. Roosevelt, then Governor of New York, while 
Norman Thomas was again the Socialist standard-bearer, and 
William Z. Foster headed the Communist ticket. 

One of my cartoons which attracted the most comment 
in that campaign was entitled "Hoover Mostly Cheek/' And 


another showed the Republican and Democratic parties as 
sloppy silk-hatted old reprobates lying in a gutter, while a 
Republican voter was saying to a Democratic voter; "Must 
we help those two old bums up again?" 

This time the spirit of protest was strong again, and 
Thomas came close to the Debs showing of 1920, tallying 

GHOSTS. Cartoon syndicated by the Socialist Party. 
*Tm the Unknown Soldier. Who are you?" 

"1*01 the Forgotten Man. The way I figure it out, they make us famous 
because we're nobody in particular." 

884,781 votes, while Foster got 102,991. Jacob Coxey of 
the famous march of ragged men was on the national ballot 
also, under the Farmer-Labor emblem, and was the choice 
of 7,309 voters. 

I went back then to the writing and drawing for the 
report on my visit to the world farthest down, and early in 
1933 it was in final shape. Going to New York, I offered 



it to four or five publishers, but all turned it down; did 
not think it would be profitable. 

Finally, late in the year, it was brought out by the 
Delphic Studios. My book was entitled Art Young's Inferno. 
It comprised 176 large pages of text and cartoons; and Jose 
Clemente Orozco did a brush-drawing caricature head of me 
for the jacket. 

In launching this work, the Delphic Studios staged an 
exhibition of my drawings which was billed as my ' 'first 
and last one-man show/' Published in a limited subscription 
edition, the Inferno book received a lot of favorable and 
gratifying reviews though it never became a best seller. 

As the months went on I drew occasional cartoons for 
the radical and liberal magazines, and some for Vincent 
Astor's weekly, Today, and thus managed to keep afloat But 
my income was uncertain, and my spirits were up and down 
from day to day. As summer waned I realized that I was 
nearer bankruptcy than ever before, and the specter of the 
poorhouse rose again before me. I said nothing to any one 
about this fear. It was never easy to tell people about my 
troubles I have always disliked to speak of them, lest I be 
thought a whiner. 

But again at this stage some good friends suspected what 
was happening to me, asked questions, and thoughtfully 
came to my rescue. While I was in the depths of gloom a 
little group in New York City got busy and arranged a 
testimonial benefit for me. It was staged in the Civic Reper- 
tory Theatre on Fourteenth Street on Sunday evening, 
November 18, 1934. That historic old playhouse was 
crowded to the doors, and from all accounts it was a memor- 
able occasion. An important factor in drawing that throng 
was a special Art Young Supplement issued by the New 
Leader; but of greatest value was a quiet but widespread 
promotion campaign conducted by the testimonial committee 
under the direction of its treasurer, Adelaide Schulkind, who 
has endeared herself to thousands in the Ubor movement as 
the tireless executive secretary of the League for Mutual Aid. 

To show the united- front character of tjbose behind the 
testimonial, and as an expression of my deep appreciation, I 


want to set down here the names of all on the sponsoring 

Bruce Bliven, Arthur Brisbane, Heywood Broun, Earl 
Browder, William E. Browder, Saxe Commins, Floyd Deli 
Samuel A. DeWitt, Theodore Dreiser, Max Eastman, Morris 
L. Ernst, Bruno Fischer, Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, Martha 
Foley, Mary Fox, Al J. Frueh, Lewis S. Gannett, William 
C. Gassner, Susan Glaspell, Henry Glintenkamp, Michael 
Gold, William Cropper, Albert H. Gross, Henry Hart Arthur 
Garfield Hays, Harry Kelly, Herbert Klein, Manuel Komroff, 
Walt Kuhn, Margaret Larkin, Dr. Robert L. Leslie, Hiram 
Motherwell, James Oneal, Frank L. Palmer, Amos Pinchot, 


Charles Recht, Elmer Rice, Adelaide Schulkind, Gilbert 
Seldes, John Sloan, Otto Soglow, Arthur Spingarn, John L. 
Spivak, Norman Thomas, Carlo Tresca, Hendrik Van Loon, 
Oswald Garrison Villard, B. Charney Vladeck, Anna Strun- 
sky Walling, Harry Weinberger, Louis Weitzenkorn, Walter 
White, Alexander Woollcott, Carl Zigrosser. 

Unable to be present that evening, I had sent a letter to 
Heywood Broun, the master of ceremonies, which he read 
from the stage. In part that letter said: 

'Please impress upon the audience, the performers, and 
the League for Mutual Aid my sincere gratitude for this 
night of celebration of my 'century of progress/ (Or is it only 
sixty-eight years? Anyhow, the time doesn't matter.) As a 
veteran of the radical movement, I'm a little the worse for 


wear, and am advised to avoid the 'wicked city* and 'undue 
excitement' for a while longer. So to my regret I cannot be 
with you to enjoy the comradeship and entertainment. 

"But I will try to deserve the festivities in my honor 
by endeavoring to express myself hereafter with bigger and 
better bitterness, for it has been truly said by some critics of 
my work that I am often too gentle with the enemy. 

"When one reflects upon the sorrow, misery, and death 
caused by the profit system, it is doubtful if it deserves any 
tolerance at all, especially at this stage of its maniacal stu- 
pidity. . . . 

"And yet, for all that is happening, we have good reason 
to dance and sing, not only as a brief respite from the punish- 
ment of having to live in this inferno, but because the end of 
Capitalism is near and the principles of Socialism are going 
to be applied to life and industry. 

"I don't know the meaning of 'dialectic materialism/ and 
many other terms used by the polemical experts, and I try 
not to get overly excited about them. All I know is the differ- 
ence between right and wrong. The cause of the workers is 
right and the rule of Capitalism is wrong, and right will 
win. . . ." 

This testimonial provided a fund which has enabled 
me to go on for four and a half years without anxiety about 
income. When the first money from that fund was sent to me, 
the committee wrote saying: "Be assured that this is given 
not in any sense as charity, but as a definite tribute to the 
enduring value of your work/' 

And my spirit was further warmed by receiving number- 
less letters of appreciation which had come to the committee 
with contributions from individuals of all shades of political 
opinion in the labor and radical movements, from writers, 
artists, actors, musicians, and men and women in many 
other walks of life. 

Chapter 39 

MY Inferno book had attracted enough attention so 
that early in 1935 James Henle of the Vanguard 
Press indicated that he was receptive to the idea of 
publishing a volume which would contain a representative 
selection of my pictures, with little text* A contract was signed 
and the choosing of drawings was begun by an informal 
committee. A long arduous job, with much re-sifting of 
material, which took months. 

Publication finally came in November, 1936, celebrated 
by the publishers with a cocktail party in a studio on Fifty- 
seventh Street. The title of the book was The Best of Art 
'Young, and it included an introduction by Heywood Broun, 

"Like most efficient radicals, Art Young is utterly con- 
servative in one respect. I refer to his art. The subject might 
be provocative and wholly distasteful to standpatters, but the 
line which he drew was tight and stern and as ruggedly in- 
dividualistic as the mind of Herbert Hoover. . . . Modern 
art never so much as rumpled his hair. He drew the most 
shocking and scandalous cartoons, all done in the somewhat 
nostalgic manner of one who had been frightened by a wood- 
cut in his early life. At a distance an Art Young drawing 
suggested the illustration for some moral maxim. Closer view- 
revealed the fact that he was saying that every exploiter 
should fry eternally for his sins/' 

After that work came out, friends would ask: "Why 
was such-and-such a picture omitted?" and I could only 
answer that the selection was based on the best judgement 
of the committee which made it, and that probably no two 
persons ever could agree on what was the best of an artist's 
work during fifty years as a producer. 

In 1936 I was asked by a firm of New York art-book 
publishers to write a biography of Thomas Rowlandson, to 



be used with reproductions of his pictures as one of a series 
dealing with significant artists. The series included an estimate 
of Van Gogh by Walter Pach, and of the elder Pieter Breughel 
by Aldous Huxley. I assented, signed a contract, and put in 
many weeks of labor on the job. 

That was an unhappy and disillusioning experience. The 
book came out in March, 1938, copyrighted by an organiza- 
tion I had never heard of and bearing the imprint of a com- 
pany also unknown to me. I was never paid the agreed-upon 
advance for this writing, nor did the publishers take me into 
their confidence in making up the volume. The company 
with which I had made my original contract had gone into 
the hands of a creditors' committee, and my efforts to pin 
responsibility on anybody were futile. The book was wretch- 
edly produced, most of the Rowlandson prints being mal- 
treated and cheapened in the engraving process, in a way to 
discredit the English caricaturist's masterful designs. 

Meanwhile John Beffel came up to Connecticut occasion- 
ally, when he could get away from an editorial job in New 
York, and went ahead with the assembling of notes for this 
autobiography. I wrote at random on past events; we had 
agreed that that would be the easiest way. Week by week 
the manuscript grew. At times I was appalled by the prodi- 
gious task ahead the matter of getting dates correct, for 
instance. At my age it is easy to be ten years out of the way 
on some happening when thinking back. And there was the 
need of recalling names of people important in my life long 
ago that had faded from my memory. 

But there are ways of refreshing one's memory, as I 
found . to my frequent surprise and gratification. Some old 
letter or newspaper clipping that we came upon in the attic 
of my house on Chestnut Ridge, or in the studio, would 
bring a completely forgotten episode back, as clear in detail 
as a stereopticon picture thrown upon a screen. 

Nineteen Thirty-Six also saw me active in the national 
political campaign. Among other output I did a series of 
cartoons for the Socialist Call, in behalf of the candidacy of 
Norman Thomas and George Nelson, who headed the party 

In this contest, however, I found that I could not hon- 
estly draw cartoons of attack against Franklin D. Roosevelt 


such as I had made against Al Smith and other past can- 
didates for the Presidency. All I could do was to be mildly 
critical of an honorable man, one of such integrity and cour- 
age as is rarely found in political affairs. 

Today I think of Roosevelt's problems as being as vast 
and formidable as were Lincoln's. I view him as a man hold- 
ing to his duty as he sees it, while surrounded by national 
and international chaos, a man who is trying to do his best 
for his own country and deal as honorably as circumstances 
will permit in the nation's diplomatic relations with other 


Socialist Call 

A GREEK FABLE UP TO DATE. Orpheus plays enchanting music, 
but what can he do to rescue the people? (The New Deal looked a little too 
optimistic to me.) 

countries. And I think of Eleanor Roosevelt as a woman of 
such human and uncompromising qualities that they make her 
not just in name but truly the first lady of the land* 

One of my cartoons in the 1936 campaign, entitled 
"Can He Save Them?" portrayed Roosevelt as Orpheus in 
classic robes playing beautiful music on a lyre in the modern 
Hell of war, poverty, and kindred evils, charming all who 
listened, while the long-suffering multitude hopefully ex- 
pected him to rescue them as the Orpheus of Greek legend 


had rescued the maiden Eurydice, and all Hell had forgotten 
its pain. 

Yet I would hate to have it said of me that my cartoons 
never hurt. To live a life as a caricaturist of the kind whose 
pictures "never hurt" is my idea of futility. It should not be 
the function of a political caricaturist just to be funny. 
Sometimes his job calls for downright cruelty, but to produce 
a cartoon that is nothing but an insulting burlesque of a 
public man is not my idea of forceful attack. It often happens, 
however, that a public man serves as a symbol of wrong 
because of his record, and as such he is properly a subject 
for lampooning, but to be assailed less as an individual than 
as a sponsor of the idea for which he stands. 

Of course when one feels that everybody, even the most 
predatory of capitalists, is also a victim of the system of 


MY SLOUCH HAT, in distinguished company at Arthur Brisbane's 

which he is a part, one's steel is in danger of not being ground 
sharply enough for effective warfare. But not to hurt with 
an idea and his manner of expressing it proves that the car- 
toonist is nothing but a court jester whom the money mon- 
archs like to have around, and when he dies they will say 
"he never hurt/' 

Just now an old clipping from the Rochester (N. Y.) 
Herald turned up; under a photograph of myself is mention 
of the Associated Press libel suit, and the added sentence: 
"Young is said to be agreeable to know socially, but he puts 
vitriol into his cartoons/' 

I was in New York when Arthur Brisbane died on 
Christmas, 1936, at the age of 72. His funeral rites were held 
in St. Bartholomew's Church, and I served as an honorary 
pallbearer. There was a curious feeling for me in being there, 
suggested in a cartoon I drew later that day, in which my 
slouch hat appeared alone in a sea of high hats. Those shiny 


toppers were on the heads of big shots of finance and politics 
including Governor Lehman. I noted that Mayor LaGuardia 
and Vincent Astor also were among my fellow pallbearers. 

I don't know what was in the minds of the notables 
around me, but I was feeling sorry not only for the late 
chief editor of the Hearst papers and his family, but for 
everybody in the crowded church, the many who had known 
Brisbane's acts of personal kindness outside of business hours 
and those who knew that his unusual talent, however cor- 
rupted, had often aroused 4 thought for the good and true. ( I 
was sorry, too, for everybody who had to die or live in 
this crooked world. 

Brisbane's passing gave me much to think about, for 
we had kept up our contact through the years, ever since 
those few months when he had me working for him in the 
Evening Journal art department around 1900. I had seen 
him become more and more cynical and hard, increasingly 
subservient to the Hearst interests, and a willing defender of 
and apologist for militarism and the power of money. 

The last time I saw him was perhaps in 1935, when I 
was seldom contributing to periodicals and to all appearances 
laid on the shelf. Nevertheless I was still drawing and writ- 
ing, with a view to possible future publication. Always 
solicitous about my work, Brisbane inquired: 'What are you 
doing now?" 

"Oh, trying to express myself/* I said. 

He gave me one of his characteristic snap-answers: "No- 
body's self is worth expressing/' and then added a tired 
afterthought: "But perhaps you're right/' 

Kenneth Chamberlain, cartoonist for the Sunday Ameri~ 
can, who saw him frequently during his final illness, told me 
that he was looking over my latest book, while propped up 
in bed, a few days before his death* 

I remembered my first meeting with Brisbane when he 
was a brilliant young man on the World, and Joseph Pulit- 
zer's favorite. He had won his spurs previously under Dana 
on the Sun. I recalled when he went with Hearst and got a 
bonus for each thousand increase in the Journal's circulation, 
and was soon getting rich. One of his first editorials in that 
paper created a sensation. Headed "A little truth will do no 


harm/' it had to do with an old woman outcast, whom he 
described as a victim of our social system. 

I remembered his love of pictures how he could write 
"all around" a cartoon that ignited his imagination; his 
capacity for hard work, his gift of imagination, his original- 
ity as a commentator on news, his passion for contrasts and 
striking cartoons, his dislike of ornate diction. But singularly 
he was attracted by pen-and-ink pictures in which there was 
an abundance of technique. 

He would drop me a line now and then asking me to 
show him my latest cartoons when he was writing the Sunday 
spread of sermonized editorials, for he always could write 
best when he had a picture before him. It was remarkable 
how he could amplify, quote, and discourse on whatever 
theme he chose. 

He enjoyed looking at the ideas that I carried with me, 
briefly sketched on a writing pad. Sometimes he would O.K. 
two or three at a time. He liked my way of putting an idea 
across the footlights and often, told me so. These cartoons 
when finished invariably expressed my own thinking, and I 
was keen to see what he had written about them when they 
appeared in the Sunday American. As a rule he did not violate 
my meaning, as he might have done in later years when the 
Hearst policy became brutally Fascist, but held close to what 
I had sought to say pictorially. In those days I doubt if any 
other writer could have written under such pressure of time 
and with such facility and easy-to-read clarity. His secre- 
taries knew that I had the right of way whenever I called 
to see him; others could wait. 

It was Brisbane's idea that modern life was a matter of 
sheer survival of the fittest, and his conception of the fit were 
those with brains for business. I had arguments with him 
about that, my belief being that the acquisitive sense and the 
ability to succeed as a money-maker frequently made the 
possessor the most unfit to survive. 

Around 4 p.m. in the old days he would start pounding 
out editorials for the next day on his typewriter. Some time 
later he increased his high efficiency by installing dictaphones 
in his office, home, and automobile, even using one when 
traveling by rail. Once when his car was standing at the 
curb outside the Hearst building with no one in it, Gene 



Fowler, then managing editor of the American and an in- 
corrigible joker, stepped into it and dictated a half dozen 
paragraphs for Arthur's daily column, burlesquing the well- 
known Brisbane style. He dealt with the gorilla's ability to 
lick Jack Dempsey single-handed, and other favorite themes 
of Hearst's No, 1 man. Brisbane's temper hit the roof when 
he read the draft of this stuff typed out by his private 

He was undoubtedly the leading American apostle of 

Fight Maga*ine f 1933 


speed and success. One day we were talking in his office when 
he asked suddenly: "How old are you, Young?" 


"Just my age," he said, and added: "You'd better hurry/' 

My friend Walt McDougall, who had done the first 
daily newspaper cartoons in New York a few years before 
I did the first in Chicago, found an exit from his chaotic 
world with the aid of an old long-muzzled horse pistol in 
1938. He met his end in the house where he had lived alone 


on the bank of the Niantic river near Waterf ord, Connecticut. 
A diary in his handwriting contained a recent entry telling of 
* 'tough times/' 

Walt had a son and many friends, but somehow had let 
himself become isolated, and mental depression closed down 
on him in his old age* I know of people who had been near 
to him, and who afterward blamed themselves for not keep- 
ing a better eye on his welfare. Yet I realize that in recent 
years, with all the economic stress in the world, many in- 
dividuals have drifted away from old associates, largely be- 
cause they have had their own difficult problems to cope 
with and to take on the troubles of others has become too 
much for them. 

Probably no cartoonist of my acquaintance had more 
fun than Walt McDougalL Through his long career he was 
both an industrious worker and a light-hearted playboy, and 
his autobiography, This is the Life, is rich in colorful anec- 

Chapter 40 

HAVING written all this, I am conscious of the fact 
that much has been left out of my story. I skim 
through folders of letters, newspaper clippings, pages 
from magazines, handbills announcing mass-meetings called 
for a long succession of causes, and sheaves of notes on the 
economic struggle and the passing show and I am appalled 


at the realization of how many individuals more or less vital 
to my life have found no place in this running narrative. 

Leaning back in my chair and looking at my living-room 
wall or off into the green Connecticut hills, I ponder the 
decades through which I have come, and recall countless in- 
cidents which might properly be set down here. If it were 
possible to take an additional year, all these stray recollections 
might be assembled in orderly fashion, each in its exact 
niche. But that essential year is not available. 



There is, however, another way out. Hence this chapter, 
in which many extra memories can be thrown in pell-mell, 
with no attempt at correct sequence and no bothering to spend 
more hours checking dates. One's thoughts flow thus, so why 
not one jumble-chapter in a book of reminiscence? 

In putting my autobiography together, I have often 
stopped short with the self-conscious feeling that some of it 
perhaps would be regarded by my audience as shameless ex- 
hibitionism. Yet I have kept on with the telling anyhow. 
And I have tried to write honestly, difficult though it be for 
any man to do that in such a narrative, for he necessarily 
lacks perspective on himself. 

Here, then, are odds and ends dipped from the overflow. 

Seeing President Sadi Carnot of France and his wife in 
the Louvre four years before an assassin stabbed him to 
death. ... A night with Jack Reed exploring the Great 
White Way, which resulted in an illustrated article called 
"From Omaha to Broadway " for the Metropolitan Maga- 
zine. . . . Mary Blair and Constant Eakin entertaining 
people from miles around at an old-fashioned Fourth of July 
celebration on their broad lawn at Redding Ridge, Conn.; 
the host in white suit and red sash as master of ceremonies, 
introducing me in a silk hat as the "renowned Senator/' My 
speech contained all the spread-eagle oratory I used to hear 
as a boy. 

Eugene Field having me write some anecdotes, illustrated 
with thumb-nail sketches, which he used in his Chicago Daily 
News column. . . . Visiting the famous Hoffman House bar 
in New York when I first arrived there, to see Bouguereau's 
painting, "Nymphs and Satyr/' which hung beneath a plush 
canopy. . . . Letter from George Cram Cook asking me to 
"rearrange your entire plan of life and work" and to play a 
role in a Greek play put on by the Provincetown Players 
"the part of the chief magistrate of Athens summoning the 
Athenian ladies to desist from their feminist revolt against 
the war with Sparta/' Somehow this seemed to call for too 
much effort. 

Louis Gardy, Sunday editor of the New York Call, using 
a cartoon of mine in a special Child Labor issue in January, 
191 7 the one in which a devil with a forked tongue touches 


an infant on the head. "The joke is on you, Baby/ 1 said the 
caption. "They put you here with talent for music, literature, 
art, and science yes, and talent for goodness and play. But 
they make you spend most of your time scheming and fight- 
ing for the necessities of life. I don't like to tell you, Baby, 
but it's a hell of a joke, and it's on you/ 1 . , . Ida Rauh 
sending out a notice in 1913 of a club to be organized, where 
men and women could eat, drink, and talk which led to 
the establishment of Mabel Dodge's salon at 23 Fifth Ave- 
nue, . . . Frank Harris holding forth there one evening on 
personal morals, with especial reference to his own love 

New York Daily Call 


Meeting Jack London at a dinner in New York, when the 
Snark was being made ready in California for his intended 
round-the-world voyage; his inviting me to "come out and 
see us off/' . , . Sketching O. Henry in Luchow's in New 
York in 1908, and his depicting me "as an old 'un/' as we 
sat at dinner with my brother Will and Jim Crane. . . * 
Buying bright colored socks three or four pairs a week till I 
had an old trunk full of them. ... Voting for William 
Randolph Hearst for mayor of New York City on a munici- 
pal ownership platform. . . . Attempts of my brother Will, 
then managing editor of Hampton's Magazine, to get me to 
illustrate stories by Eugene Wood and others (around 1909), 


and my saying I would not illustrate anything except what 
I wrote myself an attitude which I reversed after I joined 
the Metropolitan staff. 

Bob Ingersoll speaking at a rally of the McKinley League 
in Carnegie Hall in 1896* Big night. Great speech. New York 
Sun, in head-line, says Bob "stripped the tinsel from Bryan/' 


And as an example of partisan news reporting in that day, 
its opening paragraph asserts that: "In the sense that the 
audience was made up of persons too intelligent to be deceived 
by Mr* Bryan's variety of political twaddle, the meeting was 
a gathering of the classes/' , . . Getting word from a travel- 


ing friend that a Texas clergyman was delivering serious 
lectures on the nether world and using stcreopticon slides 
made from the comic pictures in my first book, Hell Up to 
Date. . . . Gaston Akoun, "concessionaire," writing me in 
1907 from Norfolk, Virginia, asking for the privilege of 
using my Hell drawings enlarged in an amusement enterprise 
at the Jamestown Exposition to be called Up. and Down 
''not being allowed to call it Hell or any such epithet which 
might offend the religious element who will attend/' . , . 

I have always been interested in men and women from 
other countries, in whatever occupation, that I might learn 
their attitudes toward fundamental things. . . . About a 
year before Ramsay MacDonald became Premier of Great 
Britain, I heard him speak at a banquet in New York and 
tried to extract from his address some phrase that was defi- 
nite. But no if one sounded at all positive, he would, by 
circumlocution of words, qualify it beautifully in the way of 
an adept statesman. Put all of his sentences into a sieve, shake 
them, and they would all go through, leaving no nuggets of 
convincing quality. That's what happens to one who stays 
too long in politics; in his youth MacDonald was positive. 

Tom Mann, the English labor leader, I saw when he was 
eighty. He looked more like an ambassador representing an 
old established government than the leader of a minority 
group of workers. His speech calling on English soldiers not 
to shoot their fathers in a bitter strike (which the Masses 
published with a portrait I drew of Mann, and a cartoon of 
mine to illustrate the context of his earnest appeal) was to 
my mind one of the most eloquent speeches in history, not 
excepting those by Marc Antony, Patrick Henry, and Eugene 
Debs while on trial for obstructing the war. . . . When I 
talked with George Lattsbury at a studio party in his honor 
in South Washington Square, I felt that he lived up to what 
I had heard about him; that he was the kind of Christian 
who would try to persuade Satan himself to mend his ways. 
Later he wrote asking me to draw cartoons for Lansbury's 
Weekly. Another one of the things I wanted to do, but 
couldn't get around to doing. 

Meeting Finley Peter Dunne on the street in New York 
after my arrest on anti-war charges in 1 91 7, He was no longer 


a dissenter; was writing no Dooley observations now to point 
out the stupidity being exhibited on many sides by the pro- 
war crowd, as he had during the Spanish-American im- 
broglio. He seemed a bit sympathetic toward my point of 
view, but said: ''Art when the world goes crazy, you have 
to go crazy too/' I said something about trying to stay sane, 
... A bird flying in through the open door of my gallery 
in Connecticut, one day when I was sorting pictures there, 
and then, mistaking the skylight for the real sky and trying 


to fly out again with such anxious cries, flutterings, and 
bumpings that I feared it would beat its brains out. But the 
frightened creature finally found the open door and flew out. 
. . . When I was fourteen on the farm, all four walls of my 
room were papered with cartoons printed in that period, and 
my drawing table touched my pillow. And so throughout my 
life. When I get up in the morning, I look first at the draw- 
ing on which I worked yesterday, 

Stirring speeches by Bill Hay wood, Arturo Giovannitti 
Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, Eugene Debs, Carlo Tresca, Jim 
Larkin, Norman Thomas, Mother Jones, Upton Sinclair, 


Meyer London, Morris Hillquit, John T. Doran, big Jim 
Thompson, Ella Reeve Bloor, Herbert Mahler, and others 
on many platforms, for outstanding causes the Ettor- 

New Masses 

Governor Fuller: "Cheer up, Judge, it will soon be over/' 

Giovannitti-Caruso defense; the LW*W* war cases; the 
Mesaba Range case in Minnesota; the great Paterson silk 
workers' strike; the striking Colorado and West Virginia 
miners facing machine-gun fire; the Mooney-Billings, Sacco- 


Vanzetti, and Terzani defenses; the fight to free the four 
remaining miners among seven sentenced to life in Harlan 
County, Kentucky, because strikers defended their lives 
against an attack by mine guards; the Centralia defense in 
Washington State; the courageous fighting of Irish and East 
Indian revolutionists for independence; the Scottsboro and 
Angelo Herndon defenses; the Imperial Valley strikers; and 
the share-croppers in the South, 

Such speeches added to my education, often moved me to 
action. Going back to my drawing board, with a vivid con- 
ception of some new wrong, I would do a timely cartoon, 
feeling that it couldn't wait till morning. Thus I made pic- 
tures to aid most of those causes, for one publication or an- 
other. The list is beyond my power of estimation; there was 
never time to keep systematic record. Day after day I am 
reminded of work of mine, dealing with the economic con- 
flict, that I had forgotten for years. 

I know that in preceding chapters of this book I have 
said that "some of my best work was done for" this or that 
publication. And perhaps I'd better sum up here, and say that 
that statement applies pretty much to numerous pictorial 
contributions of mine to Life, Pack, the Masses, the Libera- 
tor, the Metropolitan, and Goorf Morning. 

Calvin Coolidge was the only President I had missed 
seeing and putting in my sketch-book in many years. Toward 
him I felt as my Uncle Lem did in 1886 when Grover 
Cleveland was due to speak in his town: "I wouldn't go 
'cross the street to see him." I had seen quite enough of Cal 
in the news-reels, which had begun to give us Presidents 
pictorially raw, sliced, boiled, baked, fried on one side or 
turned over, and served in the juice of publicity. One wax- 
work figure would have been plenty so far as I was con- 
cerned in the Coolidge kind of fame. ... I find pages from 
the New York Herald Tribune of May 30, 1926, in which I 
illustrated an article by Duff Gilfond, "The School for 
Verdant Congressmen." . . . 

Mike Gold phoned me one day in 1926. Would I come 
over to his place for dinner next evening? Otto Kahn was to 
be there. The banker wanted to meet a few radical writers 
and artists. Kahn was well known for his financial help to 


straggling artists. Mike's apartment was over near Hudson 
Street walk up three flights. Informal; about a dozen 
present. Otto arrived around 9, his chauffeur following and 
puffing as he made the climb with a satchel filled with bottles 
of champagne. 

I was seated next to the guest of honor, and knowing 
that his father was a red in Germany in 1848 I asked ques- 


tions about Kahn senior. Otto seemed to have a great love 
and respect for his memory. 

Conversation turned to Italy and Mussolini's rise to 
power. Something was said about the dictator's financial 
backing. "You ought to know all about it, Mr. Kahn/' Carlo 
Tresca spoke up. "You lent money to him." Kahn smiled, 
but made no reply. 

The wine had its effect upon all of us, and we unbent a 
good deal. We had dined well and everything was lovely. 
After we had left the table Otto began to defend and excuse 
the capitalist's point of view. He told eloquently of the 


responsibilities and hardships which a fortune entails upon 
its owner. Being rich, he explained, meant nothing but trou- 
ble and mental suffering. At that I heard Bill Cropper sob- 
bing and saw him wipe his eyes with h& handkerchief. The 
banker took Bill's acting as a good joke, and presently was 
talking of other things. 

Afterward I wished we had asked him if he knew any 
rich men who had parted with their wealth, to enjoy the 
serenity of want. But we were drinking his champagne, and 
while the evening was pleasantly informal, we still followed 
the rule of etiquette that one must not be too rough with a 

Illustrating a book by that brilliant West Coast satirist, 
Charles Erskine Scott Wood, entitled Heavenly Discourse, in 
1927, It dealt with conversations by outstanding dignitaries 
and some interlopers in the celestial regions. For this volume 
I enjoyed doing some portraits of God, a venerable old gentle- 
man with long white whiskers. I showed him at the wheel 
of the universe, steering a course through space; in a general's 
uniform, sounding a call for preparedness; and exhibiting 
impatience with Aquarius for his unintelligent manner of 
answering prayers for rain from Denver. . . . Illustrating 
two trenchant books by Upton Sinclair about education 
under capitalism in the United States The Goose-step and 
The Goslings. Both of these added materially to my own 
education concerning the malforming of the thoughts of 
youth by a system of colleges and schools dominated by the 
moneyed interests. 

Other work I did in various years cartoons on profit- 
sharing which I could sell nowhere, and tried to give to the 
Socialist press, in the early years of this century, only to find 
that Socialist editors weren't interested in profit-sharing, . . * 
Feature article in the New York Evening World in 1907, 
about my experiences as a juror, when I saw John D. Rocke- 
feller Jr. sitting as a guest alongside the judge, and a stream 
of misery pouring in from the, city prison. . . . Pictures for 
Brooklyn Life, 1906; for Scribner's, 1907; for the Woman's 
Journal, official organ of the National American Woman 
Suffrage Association, 1912; Intercollegiate Socialist, 1913; 
for an article by Walter Prichard Eaton, "A Poor Man's 


Bank/' in the American Magazine, 1914; for the Sunday 
World, 1925; a cartoon for the Nation showing a cat lab- 
eled Massachusetts Law toying with a mouse, identified as 
the Sacco-Vanzetti case. . . . Topical drawings for the 
Window Ticker, a periodical leaflet showing "the world in 

FOR AN UPTON SINCLAIR BOOK Illustration used on the cover 
of Tht 

cartoons" sold to stores for display to passersby, around 
192L . , , 

Throughout all the years of the Masses and the Libera- 
tor, when he was a contributor of poems with an elemental 
sweep, I never happened to meet Carl Sandburg. But I think 
of him as a voice of the people, and with more reverence for 
the true Christian spirit and sympathy for the lowly than 
could be found in an average church full of pious members 


of the faith. ... A big day at the Academie Jalien in Paris, 
when I won second prize in the weekly competition for 
painting on a Biblical subject with a canvas depicting 
David's victory over Goliath. How proud I was when other 
students congratulated me on the good qualities in my first 
real effort to do an oil painting. 

Speaking at a dinner to Andre Malraux in New York in 
March, 1937. First time I ever spoke over the air. I hate to 
be hurried, and I approached the microphone with the same 
sense of caution that one feels near a red-hot stove. "I am 
allotted five minutes. If I speak only four minutes and ten 
seconds, Mr. Chairman, I hope you will know what to do 
about it; I don't/' And of Malraux I said: 

"It is one thing to sit in a quiet room and write or draw 
pictures of revolt against tyranny, and quite another thing 
to meet the enemy face to face in armed conflict. Our honored 
guest not only has studio courage, but he has that noble dar- 
ing shown by the rank-and-file fighters those individually 
unknown heroes in the desperate battle against the insane 
scourge of Fascism. It is these heroes of the background the 
brave men and women of farm and factory, whether on the 
picket-lines in the United States, or enduring the horrors of 
Hitler's inferno, or fighting and dying for an ideal on the 
barricades in Spain it is all of these that we have in mind 
when we pay our respects to Malraux. His eyes see what the 
aroused working people are beginning to see the world over ; 
his will is their will; his heart beats with them and for them/ 1 

If I had no other pleasant memories to recall than those 
of the beautiful women I have met who were active in pro- 
gressive or radical affairs, life would still be worth while. I 
fell in love with Elizabeth Gurley Flynn when as a young 
girl she aroused uncounted thousands with her clear, ringing 
voice to the cause of social revolt. When I think of beauty 
I know that some on my list would not have passed a jury 
test for what is called feminine beauty today. But as a jury 
of one I attest that they were beautiful to my eyes, and their 
loveliness lingers in retrospect. 

With no attempt at alphabetical arrangement or making 
a complete list, I think of Margaret Larkin, Ernestine Evans, 
Rebecca Drucker, Ruth and Hannah Pickering, Jessica Smith, 


Crystal Eastman, Marguerite Tucker, Inez Milholland, Gene- 
vieve Taggard, Mary Marcy, Doris Stevens, Louise Bryant, 
Edna Porter, Leane Zugsmith, Freda Kirchwey, Sara Bard 
Field, Lydia Gibson, Martha Gruening, Clara Gruening 
Stillman, Jane Burr, Caroline Lowe, Jessica Milne, Mary 
Ware Dennett, Harriot Stanton Blatch, Margaret Sanger, 
Helen Black, Mary Heaton Vorse, Anna Strunsky, Louise 
Adams Floyd, Helen Keller, Grace Potter, Edna Kenton, 
Helen Todd, Anne Valentine, Carrie Giovannitti, Rose 
Hanna, Lucy Branham, and Sophia Wittenberg Mumford. 


And these are only a few of the many I have watched as 
they did their part in the fight to make this a better world to 
live in organizing, picketing, speaking to crowds in halls 
or on street corners, writing, and raising money. 

Delving into my note books, I come upon some pages 
devoted to Edna Porter, She was born in a Socialist environ- 
ment. Her father and mother were both early members of 
the party in New Orleans. She went on the stage in her teens 
in a small part with James O'Neill in The Count of Monte 
Crist o, traveled widely with road companies, and finally 
toured in Evert/woman, playing the leading role some 2,000 
times. When the Actors' Equity Association was organized, 
she was in the forefront of its memorable strike. 


I knew Edna first at the Rand School when the Masses 
was getting started. And for twenty-eight years I have re- 
ceived at least two postcards from her each month from 
varying parts of the world. She has a passion for discovering 
people submerged yet worthy of attention the lame, halt, 
and blind. Often she has taken some struggling artist or poet 
in hand and introduced him to persons in a position to aid 
and encourage him. One of her services has been typing in 
Braille magazine articles and even whole books for Helen 
Keller to read. 

It was Edna Porter who, with Dr. A. L. Goldwater and 
another friend, smuggled a bust of Walt Whitman into the 


Hall of Fame on May 30, 1919, the day before that poet's 
birthday. Next morning's papers, especially the New York 
Call, published diverting accounts of the mystery connected 
with this occurrence. Up to then the author of Leaves of 
Grass had been rigidly barred from that holy section of New 
York University, By 1932 he had been officially admitted. 
I remember when I first met Marguerite Tucker at a 
memorial meeting for Jack Reed in Beethoven Hall. She sat 
near me, and I was struck by the expression on her face as 
some woman in black on the stage went through the convolu- 
tions of a "Dance of Death/' which seemed a bit too lugubri- 
ous for the occasion. For all our feeling of loss over Jack's 
end, I felt that he would have preferred less grief and a more 
cheerful outlook toward the future* Girls went about the 


hall offering "red roses" for sale, and I heard Marguerite say 
to one of them: "But these are carnations!" To which the 
other said: "What's the difference? They're red/' Talking 
with this animate young woman afterward, and thus begin- 
ning a lasting friendship, I learned that she was a sister-in- 
law of Dame Nellie Melba of Australia, and that she had seen 
copies of the Masses on Melba's boudoir sofa in Melbourne. 

Florence Kelley's vibrant personality comes back to me 
clearly. In Washington I often heard stories of the independ- 
ent ways of her father, "Pig Iron" Kelley of Pennsylvania, 
who was a member of Congress for thirty years. He got that 
nickname because of his insistence upon a high tariff on raw 

I had a special interest in Florence Kelley because she had 
been the first chief factory inspector in Illinois, appointed by 
Governor Altgeld. With admiration I saw her war on child 
labor, sweatshops, and laws discriminating against women 
often in the face of great obstacles, including whispering 
campaigns of slander set in motion by her enemies. I can see 
her now on the platform, answering a reactionary opponent 
who in a debate on a vital piece of legislation, claimed to be 
"open-minded." She replied that some people were so open- 
minded that ideas never stayed in their heads. 

In all my life from youth to the three-score-and-ten 
mark I have had mating-intimacy with only eight women. 
Not a record to boast about when I reflect that one of the 
American Youngs had eighteen wives and no doubt other 

One evening when I talked genealogy with Alexander 
Young, the New York lawyer, he said that all of us were 
distantly related to Brigham Young. Perhaps the "distant" 
relationship accounts for the difference between the Amer- 
ican pioneer zeal for breeding and the cautious way of at least 
one of the modern Youngs. If we could be reasonably sure 
that our children would not become helpless victims of war 
or poverty, then abandonment to real love with all its conse- 
quences could be as nature willed it. And the arguments for 
birth-control would lose some of their meaning. 

Yet even without these fears, I know that there should 
be scientific care in propagating children, with a view to 

SELF-PORTRAIT OF THOMAS NAST, with note acknowledging a 
copy of Authors' Readings. 



quality and not quantity. But my kind of a world would be 
one in which even the accidents of birth, twins or even quin- 
tuplets legitimate babies or those not quite so legitimate 
would be welcomed by their parents* And there would be no 
reason for dread of their not having decent upbringing or 
finding places to work according to their individual abilities. 

When I sent Thomas Nast a copy of Authors Readings 
in 1 897 he replied with a sketch of himself in an elocutionary 
posture and this inscription: ''Will take the book in but feel 
out because I am not in it." 

Clarence Darrow wrote me in 1928: "On My Way is a 
good book except for one thing you didn't mention me/' 

But no one has ever complained about being left out of 
my Inferno. 

Of this book I know that friends will say: "But why 
didn't you mention So-and-so?" No doubt some dear to 
memory and certain personality notations that might interest 
the reader have been overlooked and the omissions will come 
back to plague me in later years. And it may be that some I 
have included will think there is no honor in once having been 
associated or on friendly terms with one who has acted with 
such impropriety against the social code. 

Nevertheless, as the curtain goes down on these memoirs 
I'm thinking of countless friends and acquaintances most 
of whom I have sketched and kept in notebooks, and who 
belong in my life-story. Beside those already mentioned in 
the foregoing pages and in the revery picture at the end of 
this volume, others will read between the lines and find them- 


IN my youth I hoped for no higher status in life than to 
be among those who would follow in the wake of 
Thomas Nast, Joseph Keppler, and Bernard Gillam, out- 
standing artists in the field of political caricature. And when 
in my early twenties I grew familiar with the political and 
social satires of the graphic artists of England and France 
across two centuries, these gave even greater stimulus to my 
ambition. Dreamily I anticipated that my destiny was to 
succeed as a caricaturist of some influence in public affairs. 

Sometimes a prosperous individual will say to me: "Any 
man can succeed in his ambition if he really wants to. Take 
you, for instance. Haven't you accomplished what you 
wanted to do?" And I answer: "Yes " Then I have a 
repentant feeling for saying that because "No" would be 
quite as correct. I tell him that "Yes" is only one small word 
of a full, honest answer; only a little part of the whole truth. 

I point out that I was compelled to waste about half of 
my life scheming and worrying over the problem of making 
enough money to keep going, while attempting at the same 
time to put aside some of it for lean years and old age, like 
a dog hiding a bone. This exercise of my acquisitive sense, 
this trying to mix business with creative ability though it 
did not strangle nay talent might have done so except for 
fortuitous circumstances, kind and encouraging parents, lim- 
ited competition, and an instinct which told me it ought not 
to be strangled if I could possibly help it. Or perhaps a little 
bird singing in a tree-top just for joy helped to give me the 
hint. Finally I achieved a kind of success. 

Material considerations thwarted me at every turn. It 
was my money-earning ability that determined my right to 
exist, and I got through in a way but what a way! Having 
spent so much of my time maneuvering to make enough cash 
with which to live decently, I count most of that effort a 



hindrance to my development, both as a man and as an artist. 
Instinctively most men are proud to be able to provide for 
themselves and their dependents, and I was no exception to 
the rule* That duty I accepted willingly* Still it seemed to 
me unworthy of any one to make that the main reason for 

It took me a long time to understand why so much that 
surrounded me was too ugly to tolerate without protest But 
eventually I learned the reason. I saw that the conduct of my 
fellow-men could not be otherwise than disappointing, in 
fact parisitical and corrupt, and that most of our troubles 
emanated from a cause which manifestly would grow worse 
so long as we put up with it. 

That cause was Capitalism. Man's natural self-interest, 
become perverted and ruthless! The motivating principle of 
business (though not openly confessed), when summed up, 
meant: "Get yours; never mind the other fellow/' I saw, too, 
that our law-makers and judges of the meaning of the law 
put property rights first and left human rights to shift for 

Of course clergymen and other paid teachers and moral- 
ists admonished us to be upright and unselfish, and for people 
with good incomes it was easy to condemn those living on 
the edge of poverty as inferior, impractical, shiftless, and 
lacking respect for the social code. It was easy to shout thief 
at the other fellow when you had no temptation to steal I 
mean steal in a petty way. But stealing in a big way was 
often accepted as good business judgement. 

I found that life was a continual struggle for most of us 
and this on a plane not much above that of the struggle 
of wild animals and that society dismissed this obvious 
truth as a negligible factor in determining human conduct as 
well as our mental and physical well-being. I began to see 
that this economic battle persisted even in the midst of an 
exhaustless plenty, and that most humans lived and died try- 
ing to succeed in a material sense, in short, to reach the goal 
of a triumphant animalism. 

For that was, and still is, "success/' And the more one 
can acquire of physical comforts and delights the more is this 
success glorified. I know of course that in these days the 
measure of a man's real worth is not taken for granted because 


of the size of the fortune he has piled up. But he is still^the 
envied one a shining example for having reached "the 
rugged heights/' He is the winner, just as his kind were 
acclaimed back in the early years of the twentieth century, 
when individualism was king, and Socialism a mere theory 
of the crackpots and failures. 

I think of myself as a kind of sample of the human race; 
in some respects a poor sample, and different, if not peculiar. 
But my problems, I feel, have been in the main much like 
those of most men and women, at least in this regional habitat 
of the race, the United States of America, 

Every one of us is born with some kind of talent. In 
early manhood or womanhood each individual begins to see 
a path, though perhaps dimly, that beckons to him or her. 
All of us have this leaning toward, or desire for doing^ ably, 
a certain kind of work, and only want an opportunity to 
prove our capacity in that direction. These hunches, these 
signs of one's natural trend, are usually right, and are not to 
be thrust aside without regret in later life. 

I am antagonistic to the money-making fetish because it 
sidetracks our natural selves, leaving us no alternative but to 
accept the situation and take any kind of work for a weekly 
wage. We are expected to "make good/' which is another 
way of saying make money. Therefore we do things for 
which we have no real understanding and often no liking, 
without thought as to whether it is best for us, and soon or 
late find that living has become drab and empty. 

The retired millionaire trying to revert to a youthful 
love for painting or other tendency in the fine arts, is almost as 
pathetic as the poor man who has worked hard all his life at 
something in which he has no particular interest and nothing 
to show for it, in either money or recognition. 

We are all caught and hurt by the system, and the more 
sensitive we are to life's highest values the harder it is to bear 
the abuse. 

I have just looked again at a splash of cartoon-bitterness 
against the money incentive which I made for an early issue 
of the Masses. It was called "Compulsory Worship/' A pic- 
ture of people in endless droves lashed by the demons of 
Want and Fear, forcing them to kneel in shameful supplica- 
tion at the altar of Mammon* It matters not whether you 


believe in such idolatry your tormentors compel your 
prayers. So most of us pray not for riches, but for just enough 
to assure our living in normal comfort and perhaps a little 
extra for funeral expenses at the end. 

I do not think of myself as having arrived at any degree 
of achievement commensurate with my potential talent and 
capacity for work. I am just one among the many who have 
tried to approximate some measure of integrity in a world 
that is a sorry bewilderment of wretchedness and affluence. 

Through the events of seventy- odd years, as recorded in 
these pages, one man managed to find his direction. He 
reached his maturity during the upsurge of individualism, 
with its so-called "self-made" men (the profit-hounds) and 
their rise to dominance over government, the press, church, 
colleges, public business, and most of our country's institu- 
tions. Slowly this man grew aware of the wrongs resulting 
from such sovereignty, and then in his limited way tried to 
help in the work of bringing about social change. 

But he had to learn that many traditional customs and 
beliefs, however unreasonable and absurd they looked to him, 
couldn't be changed, and that to compromise with them was 
no great fault He saw that there were countless follies and 
minor wrongs which, while not to be ignored, were not to be 
taken too seriously. 

During the last four decades of his life- journey, as this 
chronicle has revealed, it became more and more evident that 
there was one wrong, one thing over all, standing in the way 
of honest and contented living the unjust treatment of 
those who produce the wealth of the world by those who 
own most of that wealth; and that the continual fight be- 
tween the moneyed interests and the working people (includ- 
ing artists) was the vital problem of our time. Now, during 
these recurring and ever-increasing conflicts, is it not obvious 
that we have to take sides? I think it has come to that, for 
all of us. 

As these final words are written, there is mobilizing and 
fighting with unspeakable barbarity in many parts of the 
world the last drive of investment-finance against further 
advance of our own Lincolnian ideal: government of, for, 
and by the people* To describe other outstanding events in 


recent years of this conflict in our own country would be 
repetition the same old fighting, except that the forces of 
reaction are bolder and more ruthless. 

Before finishing, I would like to speak of pleasant and 
hopeful signs of the times the splendid work initiated by 
many federal projects; the awakening to the need of solidar- 
ity, especially in the professional fields; the League of Amer- 
ican Writers, the United American Artists, the American 

Circa 1927 

OVER THEY GO. Drawing for an LW.W, leaflet on labor-saving 1 devices 
as a cause of unemployment, 

Newspaper Guild, and kindred movements, I see much new 
life and beauty that give reason for rejoicing, but it is ob- 
scured from view most of the time by the brutality of other 
facts dark realities like the Memorial Day massacre of 
Chicago steel strikers in 1937, inhuman conditions in 
the California fruit industry, the fostering of race and re- 
ligious hatred, suppression of protests and uprisings of 
fanners in the western states, persecution of southern share- 
croppers, the 12,000,000 or more unemployed in this land 
of opportunity, lockouts, lost strikes, vigilante terrorism; 


the countless murders, imprisonments, and suicides caused by 
the pressure of need for money; and the increase in psycho- 
pathic cases growing out of mental anxiety under our crazy 
economic system. 

What can be done about all this? I do not believe that 
making the world better depends upon each one of us becom- 
ing good. That is asking too much in these hostile surround- 
ings. No doubt "inner transformation*' is what we need, but 
outside conditions will not give inner transformation a 
chance. Yet I do believe that man is destined to be released 
for a more ennobling life, when each one of us can go even 
farther with our talent or natural ability than we thought 
possible. First of all, however, our social life must be rightly 
conditioned before anyone can grow to a decent stature as an 
honest human being or become a proficient unit in the world's 

By "rightly conditioned" I mean the common ownership 
of land and of the means of production and distribution of 
essential commodities. And this, of course, assumes the elim- 
ination of private ownership of our vital industries and the 
substitution of co-operative business as a public policy, with 
no concern for profits beyond the self-sustaining limit of each 
industry and the assured welfare of those who do the work. 

This is my own definition of Socialism as I learned to 
understand it and to believe that to establish it would make 
the most substantial groundwork for our individual and col- 
lective growth. I can see no hope for humanity so long as 
one's right to live depends upon one's ability to pay the cost 
of living imposed by those who exploit our daily needs. 

I think I know human nature well enough to know that 
the average individual works better when encouraged and 
praised, and does his worst when humiliated and looked upon 
as a slave. Some kind of congenial work is necessary to con- 
tentment. From the small boy tinkering with the construc- 
tion of a toy to the old lady knitting, with no thought in 
their minds of cash payment we see the desire of human 
beings to be doing something with their minds and hands. 

If the continual pressure for monetary gain whenever 
we render any kind of service were removed, I believe people 
would enjoy working for the common good. This is demon- 


strated over and over again in time of floods and other dis- 
asters when the call to communal welfare is the only^incentive. 

The horror of unemployment is the final undoing of the 
worker. When he sees this confronting him he sells him- 
self regardless of the intrinsic worth of his ability. Labor 
unions and collective bargaining arose to give him some 
show of power and dignity. 

Individual development depends upon mass-solution of 
the economic problems of everyday living. The inventors, 
thinkers, and the common man have made this world ripe 
for healthful leisure, and have created far more than enough 
goods for all. But through all this progress the business man 
has assumed the right to the lion's share while those who did 
the creating and hard work were compelled to fight for what- 
ever they could get or starve. If money, as it was once 
meant to be, were a true symbol of individual worth, the 
problem would be simpler, but no one is so benighted as to 
believe that in this day it represents true worth any more 
than it represents mere luck, favoritism, inheritance, or a 
drunken thirst for money-power. 

In the beginning of this narrative I told about one of my 
first assignments as a pictorial interpreter of events the trial 
of the so-called "Anarchists*' in Chicago, when the primal 
reason for hanging four of eight labor leaders was that they 
had agitated for the eight-hour day and better wages. From 
then until the present there has been savage and ceaseless 
warfare. There has been so much purging of labor's ranks by 
the dictatorship of the privileged interests in an effort to stab- 
ilize its power that the record is one long scroll of infamy. 
But the change is at hand the old order is cracking. It has 
been said before that "the cure for democracy is more democ- 

Many individuals shy at the word "revolution" because 
they regard it as a plea for still more terror still more blood 
and tears, as if humanity had not had enough. When I have 
spoken of revolution in these pages, it was to visualize the 
cycles merging in the progress of governmental ideas through 
the centuries. 

Having moved from feudalism into concentrated mon- 
archy, then to parliamentary and political democracy, and 
still further, to include participation of all male and female 


adults (without property qualifications) in elections, the 
forces which shape and re-shape society are completing the 
design in this epoch with industrial democracy. All this evolv- 
ing did not just happen. It was accelerated by the propa- 
gandists, the statesmen, the writers, the artists, and all who 
believed in the natural trend and inevitable need in each 
period of changing conditions. It is the opponents of change, 
those who will not see that conditions demand it, who deter- 
mine the kind of revolution that is impending whether it 
will involve a minimum or a maximum of obstruction and 

Trying to turn back the clock of time is the traditional 
impulse of the Tories. But there is still some hope that they 
will awaken to the futility of hard negation, and that here 
in our own country, where progressive ideas have made ma- 
terial headway since 1932 and militant organization of labor 
has gained more power to hold this progress, we can come out 
into the light of the new democracy through conscious and 
planned evolution. This is my hope, not a prediction. 

While on trial in war-time I was referred to by my com- 
rades as the only pacifist in the indicted Masses group. To be 
thought such was pleasing to me. Yet I often wondered if I 
could rightly be classed among the noble men and women of 
that cause. Sometimes I asked myself: Isn't every moral prin- 
ciple, every good thing in life, in danger of being carried too 
far? We know it's good to eat, to sleep, to be kind, to be 
cautious, and to be tolerant. But to overdo any good thing 
take tolerance, for example should there be no limit to that 
most blessed of virtues? 

"Ah!" says the pacifist, "y ur tolerance can break, of 
course, but you must not use force." I ponder anew the ques- 
tion: In the long run, is non-resistance the better way to make 
the world right? 

I do not know. This, however, I do know the big war 
of 1914-1918 was not my war. It was plainly not a war for 
democracy but for plutocracy; not for peace but for plunder, 
and to make our country military-minded. It was capitalism's 
war not mine. 

Times like these test the consistency of a pacifist. One 
sees the drive to plunge the whole world into carnage. Debate 
goes on in the press, over the radio, and on the public plat- 


form, a$ to the possibility of the United States becoming 
involved again in a general wan There are those who contend 
for an isolation policy, and others who raise the pointed 
inquiry: Can this country stay above the battle? 

As I pen these words, the old feeling stirs me anew, 
that I would like to see the United States stay out of another 
international conflict. Yet with all my hoping I know that 
I am a realist and that new conditions make new truths. To 
stay at home and be neutral is not so logical nor so possible 
as it could have been in 1917. If in my time another wide- 
flung conflict should come, I have no illusions about it. It 
will again be a war of the investment-capitalists the aristoc- 
racy of wealth in collusion with what is left of that decrepit 
aristocracy of lineage will be back of the intrigue and diplo- 
macy that decide the fate of the world. 

We must be ready to hear of their devotion to political 
democracy which they have learned so well how to use for 
their own ends. And we must be ready to hear of their enmity 
to the totalitarian state, which is just the kind of state they 
want, provided it totals in every way to their credit 

This is the truth as I see it. So, if governments haven't 
learned that peace, not war, is what people desire, my kind of 
pacifism would succumb to the hope that at last the time had 
come for a general awakening to the cause of it all, and that 
the next big war (if there must be a next) would end as the 
last one came near ending (in Germany, Italy, and other 
countries) with the rise of workers' republics in many parts 
of the world. 

With more and more governments, however crude and 
experimental dedicated to industrial democracy and universal 
brotherhood, the era of peace and joy in living will come on 

Inadequately though it may sum up, if my work can 
mortise into such a future, whether near or remote, as I 
believe it will that thought is consolation and payment. 
When my time comes I'll lay down my pencil and call it 
a day. 


Abbot, Wyllis S., 139 ff. 
Academic, Julian, 4, 8, 9, 135 
Academy of Design (Chicago) , 62, 


Ahkoond of Swat, 142-143 
Alabama, visit to, 200-201 
Altgeld, Gov. John P., 152-153, 154, 

159, 160, 161-162, 219, 222; 

anarchists pardoned by, 166-168 
American Field, drawings accepted by, 


Amnesty Association, 165, 166 
"Anarchists," Chicago, trial of, 83 ff., 

101-108, 165-168; philosophy of, 


Afbeiter Zeitung, labor views of, 80 
Arketl, W. J., 118 
Arnold, Matthew, 109-110 
Art gallery, 395 ff. 
"Art, song, and music" performance, 


Art Students' League, 120 
Aft Young's Inferno* 416-418, 419- 

420, 424 
Associated Press, libel suit brought by, 

295 ff, 
Authors* Readings, 193-195 

Baker, Alfred Z., 214 
Barnard, Frederic, 72, 130, 131 
Barnes, Earl, 320, 332, 335, 337 
Barns, Cornelia, 328 
Barnum, P. T., 123, 233-236 
Barrett, I^awrence, 92 
Barton, Ralph, 381 
Beckwith, Carroll, 4, 120 
Bell, Josephine, 320, 324, 332, 335 
Bellows, George, 388 
Benefit, testimonial, 421-423 
Berkmarm, Alexander, 323, 333 
Bethel, Conn., home at, 229 ff,, art 
gallery at, 395 ff. 

Big Stick, 340, 378, 381 

Black, William P., 84 ff. 

Blaine, James G*, 147 

Blizzard of ' 8 8 sketches, 110 

Bloor, Ella Reeve, 256 

Boissevain, Eugen Jan, 356 

Booth, Charles, editor Monroe Senti- 
nel, 31, 114, 136 

Booth, Edwin, 92 

Bougeaureau, 9, 10 

Breughel, Peter, 133 

Brisbane, Arthur, 202, 211, 256, 
262, 380, 427-431 

Browne, Hablot K.., 130 

Brubaker, Howard, 328 

Bryan, William Jennings, 192, 306, 

Bryant, Louise, 389 

Burne- Jones, 127 

Burns, John, 153 

Burridge, Walter, 72 

Business depression (1892), 172-173 

Butler, Benjamin F., 102 

Cabanel, 9 

Campaigns. See Political campaigns. 
"Campainin for the Millenum," 211- 

212, 223 

Camp meeting, 47-48 
Cannon, Joseph D., 298 
Caricatures, early, 14, 38-39, 46-47, 

52 ff.; new school of, 381 
Carnegie, Andrew, 149 ff, 
Carnegie Steel Company strike (1892), 

150 ff. 

Carruth, Hay den, 271 
Chalk plates, 69 
Chamberlain, K. R., 387 
Chatsworth railroad disaster, 98-100 
Chauve-Souris review, 380, 381 
Chester, England, 127-129 
Chicago, life in, 62 ff. f 144 
Chicago Anarchists. See Anarchists 
Chicago Daily News, 88 ff., 109-110 




Chicago Evening Mail, 69, 83 

Chicago Herald f 109 

Chicago Inter-Ocean, 109, 123-124, 

144 ff., 173, 177 
Chicago Mail, 109 
Chicago Times, 109 
Chicago Tribune, 109-110 
Chicago World's Fair, 137, 145, 156- 

158, 162-164, 169-171 
Chinatown dinners, 252 
Circus drawings, 46-47 
Clan-na-Gael conspirators, trial of, 

Cleveland, Grover, 92, 148, 149, 153, 

158-159, 162, 163, 172 
Cockerill, John A., 113 
Cody, Colonel (Buffalo Bill), in 

Paris, 8 

Colarossi School, 8 
Cottiers Weekly, 270, 379 
Color printing, introduction of, 155 
Coming Nation, cartoons for, 278 
Concert episode, 139-143 
Conde\ Jim, 245 

"Conflagration Jones." See Webster. 
Congress, United States, cartooning, 

282 ff., 302, 315-317 
Connors, Chuck, 209 
Conventions, party. See Political cam- 

Coolidge, Calvin, 440 
Cooper Union, debating class at, 226, 

247, 249, 254 

Copeland, Clyde, 56-57, 177, 201 
Copeland, Mrs. Clyde, 31, 32, 77, 


Corbett, Jim, 158 
Corner, Thomas, 12, 14, 17, 20 
Cosmopolitan, drawings sold to, 210 
Covarrubias, 381 
Cox, Kenyon, 4, 120 
Coxey's Army, 182-183 
Creel, George, 337 
Croker, Richard, 148 
Cronin, Dr., murder of, 124 
Cruikshank, George, 72, 130, 131 f 


Cruikshank, Isaac, 130 
Cuba, war with, 195-199 


Dana, Charles H. 121 
Danbury, Conn., 236 ff. 

Darrow, Clarence, 315 

Daumier, 10 

Davis, Robert R, 201 

Day, Clarence, Jr., 288 

Debs, Eugene, 216, 257-258, 272, 

Dell, Floyd, 297, 324, 328, 332, 

335, 391 

Democracy, faith in, 292-293 
Democratic conventions. See Political 


Dennis, Charles H., 89 
Denver, life in, 178 ff. 
Denver Post, 179 

Denver Rocky Mountain News, 179 
Denver Times, work on the, 177- 


Depew, Chauncey M., 147 
Dickens lore, 130ff. 
Dore", Gustav, 10, 52, 120, 127, 133- 

134, 138 
Drainage Canal (Chicago), work on, 


DuMaurier, 127, 130 
Dunne, Finley Peter, 96-98, 287, 

Durer, 133 
Dutch Treat Club, 340, 354 

Eastman, Crystal, 328 

Eastman, Max, 275, 295, 320, 322, 

324, 328, 331, 332, 335, 356, 

362, 388, 390 
Ebersold, Police Chief, quoted on 

Haymarket riot, 165, 220 
Economic freedom, 388 
Economic struggle, awakening to, 

215 ff. 

Eden Musee, 119-120 
"Edith," 111-112, 114 
Education, widening, 215 
81 Fifth Avenue, 206-211 
Elizabeth, 29, 57, 61, 124, 145, 

175-178, 188-190, 200-201, 205- 

206, 213-214, 225, 229-230, 

232, 244, 252-253, 292 
Encyclopedia Britannica, article for, 


Engel ( George, 86, 103 
Entertainment episode, 139-143 
Espionage Act, Afam* trial under tin, 

319 f., 331, 332 ff., 351 



Field, Eugene, 92-95, 113, 146, 160, 

Fielden, Samuel, 79, 82, 86, 104, 

165, 167, 173-74 
Fifer, Governor, 166 
Fischer, Adolph, 86, 103 
Fleury, Tony Robert, 9 
Flynn, Elizabeth Gurley, 444 
Folwell, Arthur, 191 
Foster, William A., 85 
Fox, Richard K., 119 
Freeman, Joseph, 390, 391 
Frick, Henry C, 150 
Frost, A. B., 113, 161 
Frueh, Al, 381 
Furniss, Harry, 283 

Garden party (Monroe), 31-32 

Garfinkle, 125 

Gary, Joseph E., 84, 102, 167, 168 

Gellert, Hugo, 328, 391 

George, Henry, 122 

Gerome, 9 

Gillam, Bernard, 122, 190, 395 

Gillray, 130, 131, 133 

Gilman, Charlotte Perkins, 298 

Giovannitti, Arturo, 328 

Gladstone, William H., 93-94 

Glintenkamp, H. J., 320, 324, 332 

Gold, Mike, 390, 391 

Goldman, Emma, 268, 323, 333 

Good Morning, 354 ff., 387 

Gould, Jay, 75 

Greeley, Horace, Nast cartoons of, 


Gresham, Walter, 162 
Grinnell, Julius S-, 83, 168, 220 
Gropper, William, 390, 39 1 
Gruening, Ernest H., 378 
Guerin, Jules, 72 
Gulbransson, 381 


Hallinan, Charles T., 328 
Hamilton, Grant, 191 
Hand, Judge Augustus, 332 ff. 
Hand, Judge Learned, 320, 321 
Hapgood, Norman, 298 
Harcourt, Sir William, 183-185 
Hard, William, 331 

Hardie, Keir, 183, 211, 215 
Harrison, Benjamin, 146 ff., 158, 159 
Harrison, Carter H., 79, 82, 168; 

murder of, 171 
Haymarket riot (Chicago) , 82 ff., 

101 ff., 125, 165-168, 219-221 
Haywood, William D., 257, 284, 

289, 330, 341 
Hearst, William R., 201, 217, 218- 

219, 324 
Hell Up to Date, 137-139, 143, 160- 


Hill, David B., 148 
Hillquit, Morris, 332 ff. 
"Hiram Pennick" articles, 211-212, 


Hogarth, 10, 130, 131 
Holmes, John Haynes, 298 
Homestead (Pennsylvania) strike, 

150 ff. 

Hough, C. M., 321 
Howitt, 130 

Hughes, Charles E., nomination, 306 
Huntington, Collis P., 126 


Illness in Paris, and recovery, 15-26, 


Irvine, Alexander, 258-259 
Ismay, Bruce, 126 
I. W. W., 330; trials in Chicago, 

341 ff. 

"John Brown's Fort," 171 
Jones, Ellis <X 352ff. 
Judge, 61, 189, 192-193, 200, 211, 
259, 270 


Kahn, Otto, 440-441 

Keene, 130 

Keller, Helen, 328, 329 

Kelley, Florence, 447 

Kelly, Fred C., 283 

Kent, Rockwell, 274 

Keppler, Joseph, 122, 191, 395 

Ker, Balfour, quoted, 266-268 

King, Ben, 125 

Knights of Labor, activities of, 75 ff. 

Kohlsaat, H. H., 146 ff., 155, 173 



Labor, early stirrings of, 74 ff. 

Labor trial, 83 ff.; 101 ff. 

LaFollette, Robert M., 223-224, 299, 

La grippe, attack of r in Paris, 15-24 

LaMotte, Ellen, 328 

Lang, Andrew, 93-94 

Lawson, Thomas W., 256 

Lawson, Victor P., 89, 124, 165 

Lee r James Melvin, 191 

Leech, John, 72, 130 

Leslie's Weekly, cartoons for, 195-196 

Libel suits, 295 ff, 

Liberator, 328 ff,, 378, 386-387, 

Life. 189, 191, 210, 246-247, 259, 

264, 270, 379, 384 
Liliuokalani, Queen, 162 
Lincoln, Robert T., 147 
Lincoln-Douglas debates, 33-34 
Lindbergh, Charles A,, Jr., 309 
Lindbergh, Charles A., St., 308-310 
Lingg, Louis, 86, 104 
Lippmann, Walter, 304 
London, visit to, 131-135 
"Looking On/' series, 378 
Lorimer, George Horace, 384 
Lucy, H. W., 283 
Ludlow (Colo,) strike, 303-304 


McAdoo, William G., 289 
McCormick, Cyrus H., 80 
MacDonald, Ramsay, 437 
McDougall, Walt, 145, 147, 207, 

209, 431-432 
McGill, Tom, 208 
McGlynn, Father Edward, 122 
McKinley, William, 146, 147, 191, 

211, 217 

Mailly, William, 288 
Malone, Dudley Field, 332 
Malraux, Andre, 444 
Mann, Tom, 437 
Marinoff, Jacob, 378 
Masses. See The Masses 
Masson, Tom, 191, 384 
May Day excitement, 79 ff. 
Medill, Joseph, 109, 110 
Messonier, 9 
Metropolitan Magazine, 154, 282, 

287 ff,, 302 ff., 315-317, 324- 

325, 331 

Michelson, Clarina, 339 

Milholland, Inez, 297 

Milwaukee Free Press, cartoons for, 


Minor, Robert, 328, 329, 387 
Moffatt, David H., 177ff. 
Monroe, Wisconsin, 28-58, 70, 77- 

78, 113, 124, 136-142, 346-347 
Morgan, J. Pierpont, 311 
"Mother Jones/' 303; letter of, 

quoted, 388-389 
Moyer, 257 

Municipal Ownership League, 249 
Murdock, Victor, 177 
Murphy, Charles F., 148 


Nancy Hanks, 158 

Nankivell, Frank, 201 

Nast, Thomas, 54, 60, 118, 121, 

122, 134, 147, 155, 156, 162, 

288, 305, 395 
Nation, drawings for, 378 
National conventions. See Political 


National Press Club, 300-301 
Neebe, Oscar, 86, 104, 165, 166, 

167, 220 

Nelson, Knute, 308 
Newell, Peter, 214 
New Masses, 393 
Newspaper Enterprise Association, 

commissioned by, 305 
Newspapers, inflammatory character 

of, 74-81, 83 ff., 89-90, 101 ff., 

121, 149 ff., 159, 167 ff., 172, 

217, 221, 257 
New York, leaving for, 112-114; 

journey to, 115-117; life in, 

117ff.; return to, 188 ff. 
New York Call, quoted, 296 
New York Evening Journal, 201-206, 

262, 380 

New York Graphic, 1 1 3 
New York Sunday American, 262 


New York World, 113, 121 
"Nig/* 42 ff* 
Nimble Nickel, 62 ff. 
Nixon, William Penn, 144-145, 160, 

165, 168 

North, Elizabeth. S>e Elizabeth 
Noyea, Frank B, libel suit brought 

by, 297 ff, 




Oberlander, 133 

Oglesby, Gov. Richard, 102, 104 

On My Way, 402-406 

Opper, Frederick, 122, 203, 204 

Pall Malt Budget, 14, 173 

Pall Mail Gazette, 173 

Palmer House (Chicago) , silver- dollar 

floor, 170-171 
Panic of 1929, 409-410 
Paris, first visit to, 3-25, 123 ff.; ill- 
ness in, 15-26 
Parsons, Albert, 76, 79, 80, 82 ff., 

103, 218, 221 

Passaic textile strike, 393-394 
Patterson, Robert, 110, 111 
Patterson, Thomas M., 179 
Peattie, Elia, 98 
Peattie, Robert B., 98 
Pettibone, 257 
"Phiz," 130 

Photography, limitations of, 58-60 
Piano lessons, 41 
Pinchot, Amos, 297ff. 
Pinkerton thugs in steel strike, 150 ff. 
Political campaigns: 1892, 146 ff., 

158-160, 162; 1896, 191-193; 

1900, 211-212; 1912, 284ff,; 

1916, 305 ff.; 1924, 378-379; 

1928, 408-409; 1932, 418-419; 

1936, 425-426 
Pollard, Percival, 201 
Poole, William Frederick, 71-72 
"Poor Fish" scries, 369 ff. 
Populist party program, 159 
Porter, Edna, 445-446 
Propaganda, effects of, recognized, 54- 


Puck, 122, 191, 248, 250, 259 
Pulitzer, Joseph, 113, 121, 149, 217- 


Pullman, George M., 183 
Push, 143 . 

Railroad strike (1894), 221 
Rankin, Jeannette, 313-314, 327 
Read, Opie, 125 

Reed, John, 276, 302, 303, 304, 
307, 313, 322, 328, 329, 332, 

362, 363, 388, 389; quoted, 323- 
324, 340 ff.; resigns from Libera- 
tor, 349-350 

Reed, Myron, 181-182, 215 
Reed, Thomas B,, 147 
Reid, Whitelaw, 148, 158, 159 
Reilly, Dr. Frank, 93 
Remington, Frederic, 202 
Republican conventions. See Political 

Revere, Paul, 395 
Rippenbein, Morris, 355, 357 
Robinson, Boardman, 320, 322, 328, 


Rockefeller, John D., Jr., 218 
Rockefeller, John D., Sr., 158, 256 
Roe, Gilbert E., 320-321 
Rogers, Merrill, 319, 324, 332 
Rogers, W. A., 121 
Roosevelt, Franklin D., 425-426 
Roosevelt, President Theodore, 197, 

211, 256, 305, 306, 310, 316 
Rowlandson, 130, 131, 133 
Russell, Charles Edward, 221-222, 

278, 305 

Russia, Reed quoted on, 340 
Ruthenberg, Charles E., 391, 392 

Sandburg, Carl, 318, 443-444 
Saturday Evening Post, cartoons for, 

384, 385 
Schaack, Captain, 80, 83, 101, 105, 

165, 220-221 

Schmedtgen, William, 105, 106 
Schnaubelt, Rudolph, 83, 125 
Schwab, Michael, 79, 86, 104, 165, 


Scripps-Howard newspapers, 305 
Scripps-McRae newspapers, 305 
Selanders, J. C, 89 
Seltzer, Thomas, 271 
Sex, problems in, 36, 50-51, 111- 

112, 114 

"Shots at Truth," 248 
Sinclair, Upton, 256 
Single Tax movement, 122 
"Snapshots in Hades," 210 
Snowden, Clinton, 69, 74 
Social injustice, awareness to, 222, 


Socialism, the World War and, 302 
Socialist Call, drawings for, 425 



Socialistic doctrine, growing interest 

in, 254 ff. 
Socialist party, emergency convention, 

314-315; 1919 convention, 362- 


Socialist Primer, drawings for, 411 
Socialist sympathies, 254 ff. 
South Wales colliery explosion, 183- 


Spanish- American war, 195-199 
Spies, August, 79, 80-81, 86, 103 
Stanton, Theodore, 8 
Stead, William T., 14, 173-174 
Steffens, Lincoln, 256, 298, 302, 313, 

369, 387-388 
Steinegas, 381 
Stengel, Hans, 381 
Stephenson, Isaac, 223 
Steunenberg, Governor, assassination 

of, 257 

Stevenson, Adlai E., 148, 150, 159 
Stokes, J. G. Phelps, 315 
Stokes, Rose Pastor, 315 
Stone, Melville E., 86, 88, 104, 106, 

124, 165 

Sullivan, John L., 158 
Sullivant, T. S., 191, 203, 204 

Tammany Hall, 148, 149 

Tarbell, Ida, 256 

Taylor, Bert Leston, 191 

Tenniel, Sir John, 72 

Thackeray, 130 

The Best of Art Young, 424 

The Masses, 277, 392; beginning and 
growth of, 271 ff., 282; Max East- 
man appointed editor, 275; East- 
man editorial in, 295; Floyd Dell 
with, 297; censorship of, 318ff. 

"Things That Hit Our Funny Bone" 
series, 250 

Through Hetl with Hiprah Hunt, 210 

"Toby M.P.," 283 

Today, drawings for, 421 

"Trees at Night" series, 384 

Tridon, Andre, 271 

Trinity Church (New York) tene- 
ments, 278-281 

Tucker, Marguerite, 446-447 

Twain, Mark, 95, 241-242 

"Types of the Old Home-Town" 
series, 385 


University of Chicago, 158 
Union Square (New York) bomb ex- 
plosion, 258 ff. 
Untermeyer, Louis, 272, 328 


Vanderbilt, William H., 75 
Vanderpoel, John H., 4, 62, 120 
Vibert, 10 

Villard, Oswald Garrison, 378 
Vlag, Piet, 270-272 


Wabash Railroad, strike on, 75 
Waite, Chief Justice, 102 
Waite, Gov. David Hansen, 185 
Wales, visit to, 129-130 
Walling, William English, 298 
Wall Street panic (1907), 258 
War, The Masses policy against, 

319 ff. 

Warren, Lansing, 177 
Washington, life in, 288 ff. 
Waterloo, Stanley, 125 
Wattles, Willard, 322 
Weaver, James Baird, 159 
Weber, Grant, 139 
Webster, Clarence, 3 ff., 24, 27, 116, 

123 ff., 126, 137, 139, 142, 

144 ff., 160, 173, 177 
Weeks, Rufus W,, 271, 274 
West Point cartoons, 153 
West Virginia coal regions, 303 
West Virginia coal strike, 295 ff. 
Whigham, H. J., 283, 302, 310, 317 
White, Butch, 89, 102, 105 
Whitlock, Brand, 284 
Whitney, Harry Payne, 287 
Whistler, James McNeill, 8 
Wilde, Oscar, 7-8, 178 
Willard, Frances, 91 
Winter, Charles A., 272, 274 
Wilson, William L,, 148 
Wilson, Woodrow, 307, 310 ff., 319 
Wood, Charles W., 328 
Wood, Eugene, 264-266, 271 
Wood, Suzanne Ella, 139 
Woodville, R, Caton, 72 
Workers' Monthly, 393 
World's Columbian Exposition. See 
Chicago World's Fair 



World's Fair (Chicago) . See Chicago 

World's Fair 
World War, socialism and the, 302 ff., 

310 ff. 

Yerkes, Charles, 177 

Young, Art, trip to Paris, 3-25, 
123 ff. ; home life in Monroe, 
27 ff. ; young manhood, 49 ff,; life 
in Chicago, 62 ff. ; life in New 
York, 117ff,, 188ff., 244 ff. ; per- 
sonal attitudes, 159-160, 447-449; 
life with Elizabeth, 175-177, 
205 ff., 213 ff., 225 ff., 243-244; 
goes to Washington, 282; socialist 
activities, 222 ff. ; later years, 
408 ff. 

Young, Charles, 37, 42, 45, 61 
Young, Daniel, 20 ff., 29, 32-34, 36, 

39, 346-347 
Young, Mrs. Daniel, 31-32, 33, 35, 

Young, Don, 225-226, 292, 382- 

383, 411-412 

Young, Elizabeth. See Elizabeth 
Young, Nettie. See Copeland, Mrs. 

Young, North, 214-215, 231-233, 

292, 383-384 
Young, Will, 45-46, 190, 206 ff., 


Zeisler, Sigismund, 85 
Zim, 122